Doppleganger
by katnjax
Summary: It is said that when you meet your Doppleganger misfortune is guaranteed to follow. Even death. A 2p! vs 1p! Hetalia story.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: We know that there's other stories that share similarities, yet this is a vastly different, darker story. We don't own Hetalia. Please enjoy.

It was suppose to be like any other day. The sun hid behind thin, grey clouds and hung over a large, Victorian styled estate looming over the English country side. The home was made up of cracked, stone bricks and had thick vines climbing up the walls that spread out and seemed to grab the sides and corners to keep it together. The large front doors were a bit crooked and were slightly ajar. Bordering the house and covering the landscape was an array of colorful wild flowers, overshadowing the long forgotten garden beds that, perhaps, once held trimmed and groomed greenery one would be proud of. Scattered about where variations of fountains, garden ornaments and cobblestone walkways weaving through out the wild beauty of the landscape. The windows were musty and reflected the sun's light, making it difficult to see beyond the glass. The inside of the house mirrored the outside in its lovely pale, pastel colored walls and the knick-knacks that lay about vicariously. The estate itself was strangely welcoming, and charming in its out-of-order manner, yet oddly enough it was completely isolated. No birds sang and the wind barely whispered over the land. This lonely manner had no neighbors in about a hundred acres in each direction. At first look, it would be a hauntingly wonderful house to live next to. And its owner was charming as well upon first impression.

_"__Miss Lucy had some leeches,  
Her leeches liked to suck~"_

Of course, that was only by first impression.

_"__And when they drank up all her blood,  
She didn't give a ~"_ An eerie, boisterous laugh erupted from lord of the manner as he moved around the kitchen of his English estate. The bright baby blue walls matched not only his signature blue tie, but his wide, mad happy eyes. The man singing stood in a tiled kitchen; flour powdered said blue walls and mixed with a strange red and pink color. Red stained his apron and white spots covered his freckled face.  
_"__Funny when the doctors,  
Had locked her in her cell~"_  
His light pink sleeves were rolled up and dusted with flour as he continued to mix the cupcake batter. His lavender vest not spared from the mess of the ingredients as his continued to sing his happy little tune.  
_"__Miss Lucy screamed all night that they  
Should go to bloody~"_ Another loud laugh erupted from the English man as he set the bowl down. His grin was ever present as he began to search the cabinets, continuing to whistle the rather dark take on the beloved nursery rhyme. Lithe fingers traced over the various bottles and containers of spices, and stopped short when they fell on an empty spot.

The whistling stopped…and was replaced by nervous, constant giggling. The Cheshire grin still plastered on his face as his hands desperately began digging through the cabinets. The whistling becoming more labored, his mischievous grin forced to be in place. His hands hesitated for a split second before they were frantic, eyes twitching as the key ingredient to his most infamous cupcakes refused to present itself. "Now, now, where did you go off to?"  
"England, what're you doing?" The chipper, small voice caused the platinum blond to twirl around, his body slightly twitching, his giggling maddening as he approached the floating creature only a few feet away from him. It looked like a wild hare, with brown fur and yellow eyes. It had ruffled brown wings that lightly fluttered to keep its place in mid-air. Its toothy smile aimed at the man as it snickered.

"Flying Chocolate Bunny!" His voice frantic, his thick blonde eyebrows raised, making his mad eyes bigger, "I'm making cupcakes for dear Alfie~!" His eyes frantically continued to search the kitchen, the panicked giggling never ceasing, escalating by the second, "Have you seen the-I need the-the-!"

"England, I think we ran out," Flying Chocolate Bunny said matter-of-factly, not at all phased at Arthur's sudden halt in actions, the slow, dark aura seeping from him.  
"We're…out…" Silence, the dark aura brewing around him, "We can't be out. I want to give these to my Alfie. I have to." The cat like smile grew on his face despite the anger brewing from the absence of the precious ingredient. His voice escalating once again, "They are special, they are-"  
"I think I know where to get more, England~" Flying Chocolate Bunny cooed mischievously to the mad Brit. The dark aura disappearing immediately, his smile now overly genuine and soft as England bounced back to his most sincere of friends.  
"Oh, do show me where~!"  
"Follow me." Flying Chocolate Bunny said coaxing Arthur away from the thrashed kitchen. England untied the ruined apron, tossed it on the counter next to the suspicious batter, and followed the mythical being out and through the hallway. The pictures on the walls of the hallway were cracked or smeared to the point of no recognition. If he took the time to stare at some of the pictures, he could see the people in them and how happy they were. But that was a long time ago, and England was too excited about getting the special ingredient, so he paid no attention to them as Flying Chocolate Bunny hovered to a wooden door.

England cocked his head to the side, his eyes curious and his smile still small and soft. "The basement? Oh my, what ever could be there? I'm sure I don't store any of my magic spices in there!"

Flying Chocolate Bunny just grinned and waited patiently for the country to grab the brass door knob. England just stared at his friend, watching those beady yellow eyes. "You know, if this is another trick, I will have to rip off your wings~" It wouldn't be the first time Flying Chocolate Bunny took a joke too far.

The creature never broke eye contact when he fazed through the door. England snickered to himself, his curiosity getting the best of him, and opened the basement. He descended down the wooden stairs and ignored the musty smell. Boxes untouched, books of spells and rituals scattered and stacked everywhere, the ground covered in candle wax and stains of dried blood littered the floor. Various artifacts from the mad country's past where there as well. The eerie tune found its way to England's lips again, the whistling being the only companion to the silence of the cold damp space. It has been a long time since he was last down here.  
They weren't down there for too long until Flying Chocolate Bunny stopped in front of a large, sheet covered mass.  
"Oh, silly Flying Chocolate Bunny~!" Arthur laughed full heartedly, "This isn't where I keep the cupcake ingredients~!"  
"No it isn't, "The deep brown colored creature pulled away the fabric to reveal a large mirror, "But you do remember what this is, don't you? "  
It took England a few moments of studying the object before he perked up, "Why, this is Alice's looking glass!" More giggles spilled out of him, "Now, why would you show me this?" A mischievous glint reflecting the one of his odd companion, "You know Wonderland has been closed off to us for quite a while. What are you up to, hmm~?" England's thoughts already plotting fun ways of punishing his devilish friend for misleading him, _again_.

"To Wonderland, yes." Flying Chocolate Bunny's expression never wavered, despite the all too familiar looks England was giving him, "But looking glasses like these have funny ways of redirecting their attentions, perhaps those on the other side may have what you're looking for," The devious hare's voice seducing the country with the promises of a new playground that was just beckoning him. The blonde's head bent to the side, grinning ear to ear, a new excitement enticing him.

"It's all on the other side, just walk through. Same as last time," Flying Chocolate Bunny's smile was impossibly wide, "I'd go myself, but I think only humans can go through."  
The baby blued eyed blond didn't need anymore of an invitation, excitedly he leapt through the mirror, easily passing through; more excited about where it lead to than the prospect of completing his special cupcakes for his dear Alfie. He closed his eyes and stepped into the mirror.

It felt as if he walked through nothing but thin air. England took in a breath and didn't open his eyes until he felt his feet walk on a solid ground. He opened his eyes and was puzzled. It looked just like his basement, only it looked like he spun around to stare at it. He giggled, "Oh, Flying Chocolate Bunny, what did I say about tri-" He turned to where the creature was just a moment ago, only to find it missing. England's grin grew wider and his eyes narrowed slightly. "Oh, playing hide and seek now?" He walked over to an open box and rummaged through its contents. He pulled a steak knife and his smile faltered slightly. He shrugged, _'This will have to do for now.'_ He chuckled darkly as he ascended the stairs, looking forward to finding his trickster friend. He really should know better than to prank him.

He opened the door to the first floor. "Flying Chocolate Bunny, there is no-" He stopped.

This... was different.

His pale pastel walls of brilliant colors were now a simple dull, light green. On the walls were pictures of country sides and cottages. The floors looked polished and long rugs covered them, compared to what it was just a minute ago. England stepped forward, forgetting about his delightful friend and all the fun he was going to have, and walked into his living room. Or, what was his living room. Instead of his plush couches and lacy furniture, there sat two brown leather couches facing each other in front of his fireplace, which held only a few pictures and some vases. There were also green curtains, which surprised England, for he loved the sunshine and wouldn't dare put up anything that would make him feel shut out. He wanted to be inviting! How was he supposed to make new "_friends_" like that? He was very confused. _'This is peculiar indeed...'_ He broke out into his maddening grin again.

"This is most certainly interesting! I wonder what this place is~" He reached out to grab the picture frame closest to him. He brought it up to his face and stared. The man in the picture looked somewhat like himself, only there were a few differences. This man had blonde hair, vivid green eyes, and had a straight face. England brought his knife up to the picture. "Goodness, chap, you look almost like me! Here, you need a smile on that old mug of yours!" He brought down the knife and scratched the glass frame. The screeching sound from the act made his grin grow even more as his eyes twitched in pain as his grip tightened on the picture. "There we go, old chap! If you want to look like me, you have to be perfect!" He laughed to himself and dropped the picture, the glass cracked as it made contact with the floor.

England looked around the house, tossing the cushions around, opening drawers and throwing them across the room, and pushing tables out trying to find something interesting to do. When he made a complete mess of the place, he perked up. "That is right! Alfie's cupcakes!"

He got up from a pillow he was cutting up with his knife and walked back into the hallway. He approached the door directly opposite of him and opened to a clean tile kitchen. Everything was neat and in place, no wonderful colors to play with his eyes, and not nearly as many tools lying around. Arthur wandered in and immediately rummaged through all the cabinets. He tossed out the pots and pans that were in the way that clanged to the floor. He found a bag of flour, opening it with his hands, and searched in the white powder. He licked his finger, dipped it in the flour, pulled it out, and brought it to his lips. He stared at the bag before tossing it behind his shoulder, the flour dusting the kitchen counter and floor. He opened some drawers above his head, finding spices and extracts. He repeated the process he did with the bag of flour and with anything he could grab. Take, taste, toss. Take, taste, toss. Broken bottles, thick syrups, and colored dusts littered the kitchen, each time he tasted England was getting impatient. He frantically reached for other bottles, but he stopped.

The sound of a door shutting reached his ears.

Someone was home.

England relaxed a little. "My, my, could this be the fellow from the picture?" He asked himself as he picked up the knife, that he left lying on the counter during his frenzy, and hid it behind his back.

**"What the bloody Hell?"**

"This will be fun~"

He tip-toed out of the kitchen and peeked through the door frame. Sure enough, from what he could see, it was the same man from the picture. The same man whom he graced with a smile. Pity this man didn't have his smile still. He looked angry, eyebrows furrowed and mouth turned to a scowl. Maybe England could change it again? More permanently.

England's eyes narrowed and his smile reached to his ears as he crept behind the flustered man."What the Hell happened in here! This is a load of bullocks! France, I swear to God, if you're in my house trashing my things, you better own up to it, you frog!" The look alike grumbled and shouted.

England stopped. "Oh, you know France? How delightful~!" He couldn't stop giggling. "What _else_ have you copied from me?"

The man turned around, and was in shock. He stared at England for what seemed like forever to England. "Wh-Who are you! And what are you doing in my house!"

"So this is your house! How wonderful~" England stepped closer. The other man stood his ground. "Tell me, do you enjoy mocking me? You don't even look like me."

The man furrowed his brow and tilted his head. "What are you talking about?" He looked England up and down. "You're the one with the horrendous clothing!" He looked around the living room. "Are you telling me you're the one who did this?"

England pulled out his knife. The man's surprise was enough of a window to allow England to push him against the wall. He pressed up against him, one hand held his wrists to the man's chest, the other holding the knife close to his throat. "Now, now, old chap," The calm voice betrayed those maddening blue eyes. "Why don't you tell me who you are, or I'll slit that thick throat of yours and carve you're face off. Maybe that will teach you to try and mimic someone like me, you twat."

The man swallowed and glared. His eyes looked down at the blade, then back into that pale face with that damn grin. "I-I'm Arthur Kirkland... Also known as England..."

England broke out into a fit of laughter. "Oh that is funny! Silly, I'm England!"

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "No you aren't. I am!"

"No. Me~"

"It's me, you crazy bastard!"

"I don't think so~"

"Like bloody Hell! Just look at you!"

England removed the threatening knife and threw Arthur down onto the floor. The blonde man winced at the force that was put on his back, and then grunted as he felt weight on his abdomen. England climbed on top of him, knife held up and his face dark as ever. His sneer was piercing Arthur as sharp as the weapon he held. "I am England, and you sir, are about to be a forgotten corpse found in the English Channel, with your eyes plucked out and your intestines wrapped around your neck. Now, be a good lad, and tell me where I am and who are you. I am not the most patient person~"

Arthur struggled. "You loon! I. Am. England! Unhand me this instant!"

The blonde above wondered for a bit. This man was persistent. He couldn't have been England. He was England! And if he was an impostor he did a horrible job at doing it. He kneed the man below him in the side to make him stop squirming so he could think. Arthur's words and insults fell on deaf ears as he pondered and pondered. _'Let's rethink all of this now, shall we? I followed that irritable rodent to my basement, where he showed me a mirror. I stepped through it, and I ended up here. I met with this man, who, despite not really acting like me, does hold some resemblance. Could it be that... That this is another me? Hmm… It's not impossible. I've had many adventures like this, and every time no one else believes me. They all think I had a taste of my delicious cupcakes and made it all up, but silly them! I would never do that. Hmm... It could be...Maybe…'_

"...I said **GET OFF**!"

England got up and moved away from Arthur. The man was stunned, but he pushed himself up and glared at him. "Are you mental? What the Hell is your problem!"

"I need time to think."

"What?"

England used the blunt end of the knife to bash Arthur's head, knocking him out cold. "None of your concern, old chap~ I need to go back home. Alfie's cupcakes can wait." He stared at the body, and tsked. "You are no fun at all. You're lucky I don't kill you now." He chuckled. "But I can always come back for that~"

He left the living room and entered the basement. He padded down the steps and stared at the mirror. _'Yes, perhaps this is a new world after all...'_ His grin grew dark as he phased into the mirror, "This proves to be... quite interesting." His voice overflowed with utter glee," I can't wait to tell the others~!"


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: Cool fact, we did research for this chapter. All events/problems mentioned in this chapter really happened or are ongoing. Sleep on that.

It was particularly grim today; the sky was dark and smog lingered in the city. The sun itself hid from the world, shunning it from it's bright warmth, leaving a constant chill cascading along the landscapes; all inhabitants filled with a constant bitter sense of dread. People walked about wearing masks to protect themselves as they went about their day, watching others walk by with distrusting, hallow eyes. The streets were cracked, crooked and were in desperate need for repairs. Few begged in the streets, but no one was paying much attention to them as they scurried about, trying to find a way out of public sight. A stray dog walked by and sniffed at a rundown store, the owner smacking it with a rolled up newspaper brutally. Compassion was at a loss in the hearts of these shells of humans as other interactions were brisk, harsh and held no warmth. People coughed and kept to themselves, occasionally staring at a distant building among all the other tall skyscrapers. It wasn't hard to miss; it had polished windows and had all the world flags hanging off above the entrance, and the lettering of the building's name was waxed. Few cars were parked outside of the building, most of them foreign.

This was the UN building, one of the nicer buildings in the city, arguably the only nice structure for miles around. Inside this building there was a meeting going on, a meeting to decide what to do to fix all of this mess. The mess that was all around them and spitting them in the face; a fact they could no longer turn their apathetic backs to and ignore: This world was bleak.

This particular meeting also included what was suppose to be nine men.

"Welcome to the monthly World Conference, everyone," A voice spoke in the bare room sounding a bit ticked off. "Or those of you who showed up," the owner of the voice grumbled to himself. "Now sit down and shut up. We have a lot of work to do, and I didn't come here today to argue like we usually do. So how about we act like the fucking adults that we are, discuss the problems of the world, and try our hardest to fix them together."

The chatter that filled the large room died down at the harsh tone of the young man, and one look from him was enough of a reason to listen to what he had to say. He was a brunette with red eyes, lightly tan skin, and wore a scowl. There was currently only seven men in the room, one being the one who spoke. The six others stared at him before they took seats close to the speaker, the round table much to small for everyone to spread out.

The brunette smirked when everyone obeyed. "Alright, let's get this over with." He grabbed a stack of papers next to him and shuffled through it. He grimaced at all of them before picking one up, briefly reading it, then sighed and spoke curtly, "So, China...what the fuck is this?."

A Chinese man with bright red eyes and his hair in a low ponytail looked up lazily and smiled coyly at the angry man. "What is it, America?"

America slammed the staple papers down. "What the Hell is this? Why are you lying about you're AQI? It's in the hazardous zone, and you're lying to the public by telling them that the level is moderate. What the fuck, man! We can't have them walking around in that! What is wrong with you?"

"Well, how else do you think we're going to keep making our products? Because of your high demand, we have no choice but to work extra hard. And if that means a few people get sick and the air is a bit dirty, who cares? Besides," the man winked, "how else are you going to get all your products for such a cheap price?" China's nonchalant way of talking about such a severe issue with such an airy manner angered the American, glaring at him he was about to retaliate his argument physically when another voice intervened.

"China has a point," The deadpan comment came from the blonde sitting across from china, his hair was is a ponytail much like China's, only his hair was curly, one strand sticking out from the crown his head and hung loosely in front of his face. His dark shades hid his bored and annoyed expression.

"Canada, you can't seriously agree-."

A Japanese man with dim, red eyes and a short haircut interrupted, "You do rely heavily on him for practically everything. Pretty pathetic if you ask me."

"No one asked you, freak." America growled. "Look, China, it's not like I really care about these dumb ass humans and all, it's just that I want my people to stop bitching and complaining about your problems. So do something about it, or I'm coming to your house and bashing your face in. Got it?"

China smirked. "Oh please~." His voice intentionally egging the brunette nation, "You think you're water boarding ass can just get your way? I don't care how many bombs you have, I dare you to come knocking at my door."

Canada rolled his eyes as America and China bantered back and forth, Japan just watched as his older brother was getting the super power more upset with an obvious glint in his eye.

"Damn hosers, can't even get into a meeting without a fight. America should know by now that China is just being stubborn." He scoffed at his brother.

"Da." A tall, bulky man sat next to the Canadian. He also had deep red eyes and a permanent frown on his face, though his eyes held slight amusement by the argument. His Russian accent was thick, and his answer was the end of the conversation between him and the Canadian.

A bit of a ways away sat the other two men: a man, with violet eyes, one having a long scar underneath, and had blonde hair that was slicked back and covered by a brown hat; the other was tan skinned, had wide magenta eyes, and short, burgundy hair with a strand curling to the side. As the blonde stared at him, the other continued flicking his little blade quicker by each passing minute. This made the blonde nervous, his cheek that held the scar slightly twitched. That knife has done damage before.

The man holding the knife paused, magenta eyes stared at his blonde companion,"Germany~" The Italian accent was sickly sweet. "I'm getting bored."

Germany felt his eyes widen a bit in alarm, but he smiled anyway and stood up. "Alright, dummkopfs, how about we change the subject and get onto the next?" He suggested calmly but sternly, hoping that the next subject wouldn't bore his eccentric, Italian comrade.

America and China stopped chocking each other, America grimaced. "Fine." The two countries stared at each other and let go, eyeing the other with unease. America flipped through the papers again before picking up another topic. "Canada...what the hell is this?"

Said man raised a brow. "What?"

America tossed the papers at his brother. "The ex-porn star and his little 'episode'. How's that coming along?"

China perked up at that. "Oh yeah. Thanks for mailing all those body parts to me, by the way. Real mature."

Canada scowled. "That wasn't me, asshole. It was all him." He reached over and snatched the report from America, the nation only narrowed his eyes but did nothing else to stop his brother. It was his problem, after all.

"Last I heard he was in France." Japan spoke up again.

"Actually, I prefer to talk to France about that personally." Canada said, reading over the report, "It'll get taken care of."

America shrugged. "Good. Less work for us."

"Where is Big Brother France anyway~?" Italy asked no one in particular.

At that moment the doors to the room opened. Everyone's attention turned to the two last members of the meeting. One was a man with sickly pale skin, messy blonde hair tied in the back, a thick five o'clock shadow, lavender eyes, and a limp cigarette hanging from his lips. The man next to him was all smiles.

"Sorry we're late everybody! I had the most interesting adventure-"

"Mon Dieu, you stupid Brit, just shut up," The man grumbled to himself in his French tongue. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stop the headache from coming on.

"Where the hell were you two? We started over an hour ago." Everyone watched as the two took there seats, England happy as ever was about to speak before the Frenchman covered his mouth.

"This imbecile odieux got himself lost in his own basement, leaving me to search for him for twenty minutes."

England reached up and pulled away France's hand. "I wasn't lost silly~! I was making cupcakes for Alfie and-"

"Dude, England, who cares. Canada, you wanted to talk to France about something right?" America interjected.

"More in private-"

"And what do you mean cupcakes!" America interjected, eyeing the giggly nation suspiciously and menacingly; knowing all too well that the insane Brit's cupcakes were far from simple little pastries.

"So just talk about something else." Canada's eye twitched. God, did he hate being interrupted. Especially if it was by his obnoxious brother.

Germany grabbed the stack of papers from America. "This is taking too long. I have places to be. I'm taking over."

America growled, "Whatever, dude."

Germany shuffled through the papers, occasionally pausing and scanning the contents, only to shake his head. "You know, for as many problems we have, they are all so damn boring. Can't these humans just take care of themselves?"

"I know, right?" America agreed.

Japan shook his head. "Obviously not if the world is like this."

"Eh, I don't know. Maybe we should just let them fight it out~" Italy smiled. "Like old times~"

"No," China said, thinking. "That's too expensive to do these days...plus, there's too much gore for my liking, anyway."

"But that's the best part~!" Italy's exclaimed.

"Yes, but what about after? What are we going to be country of? A bunch of mutilated corpses? Nien danke." Everyone nodded in agreement with Germany as he grimaced. "This is so ridiculous."

"Oh mon Dieu putain, SHUT UP!" Everyone turned to France who looked like he was ready to snap England's neck. England just kept smiling a soft, cherub smile as he stared at France's angry face.

"France, what's wrong?" Germany asked.

"This black sheep of Europe won't shut up about some stupid mirror and some random house! It's infuriating! He hasn't shut up about it since I picked him up! I swear I'll rip out your throat if you don't keep quiet for five minutes!"

England just chuckled. "But it was so-"

"THAT'S IT!" The Frenchman roared, turning to start throttling the still smiling, and now laughing, Englishman violently, "Try. JUST TRY to say something about that idiotic fantasy of yours ONE MORE TIME. I DARE YOU." He snarled as England continued laughing hysterically between chocked gags.

"Flying-!" Gag, "Chocolate Bu-Bunny-!" More gagging, laughter reaching a high pitch, "Mirror-" A tighter grip, more throttling, lack of oxygen, "Cupcakes-Alfie-Another MEEEEEEEEE~"

"ENOUGH!" America shouted as he grabbed hold of his signature bat. He rushed at the two and swung a warning hit at the both of them, making them stop immediately. France let go of England, eyeing the nail, bandage, and blood covered bat cautiously. Once the bat was out, Alfred meant business, "Shut up, both of you, or I'll bash your faces in." His eyes cold, dead serious. "We were actually getting shit done until you showed up. Now cooperate, or get the fuck out."

"Not really," Japan mumbled and rolled his eyes. Luckily no one heard him.

"But Alfie-" Arthur whined, and was curtly cut off by a growl from Alfred, oh Lord how he despised that nickname with a passion. Nonetheless, the madman continued, "I really did see another me, another world I think! This isn't something I imagined!"

"Shut UP!" Both Francis and Alfred groaned irritatedly at the same time, shutting the now pouting English nation. With a heavy sigh, America set down the bat.

"Now...where were we?" America looked over to the German, who now had all the papers needed to continue the meeting. The blonde skimmed the articles, trying to find something that wouldn't bore his Italian friend, who was looking up at him expectantly.

"Ah, it seems that the riots in Greece have been escalating at an alarming rate..." Everyone let out a loud groan. The entire subject of Greece itself was just a migraine waiting to happen. This meeting was unfortunately going to be a lengthy one.

The bounce in Arthur's step was less flamboyant as he entered his home well into the hours of the night. A pout still firmly on his lightly freckled face as he took off his coat and started to ascend the stairs. 'Stupid America and France! I really did have an adventure today!' he kicked off his shoes and started to unbutton his vest, 'Why do they always think I make things up? It's not fair! It just isn't!' He tossed his dress shirt aside and began unbuttoning his pants, 'Wouldn't that be funny if they found out about all my little secrets?' A loud laugh escaped him as he jumped underneath his covers, clad only in his boxers. His hands folded behind his head in a whimsical thoughtful manner. 'If they could see what I see?' Little giggles followed a heavy, dreamy sigh, "Oh, they would feel so silly wouldn't they? How they would feel utterly stupid! They'd see that they're the ones who are...crazy!' More mad little chuckles as he got ready to go to sleep. His thoughts hummed in his head as his eyes grew weary. The conversation in his mind looping in circles, but it was always the same conclusion. 'If only they could see... If only, if only, if only...'

He eyes snapped open, "I CAN prove it!" He exclaimed suddenly to no one in particular as he hurriedly jumped out of bed and quickly dressed himself in his rumpled clothes from the day. He then made a dash toward the kitchen, grabbing his handy dandy baking apron.

Arthur sighed heavily to himself as he finished vacuuming the remainder of the couch stuffing out of the carpet. He had spent most of the day cleaning up after the lunatic that invaded his home and not only thrashed his home, but attacked him. A shiver ran down his spine as those piercing blue eyes invaded his thoughts, how they gleamed with utter madness as he held a knife to his throat; how his smile was so eerie and sickly genuine as he cackled with that insane laughter of his...There was something else too, he had claimed to be Arthur, to be himself! Now obviously, he had to be insane, because arthur knew that he was himself, not some loon home invader! However, there was this feeling in the pit of his stomach he couldn't shake, this undeniable feeling that in a way, he had to be right. It was ludicrous, really, to even give the idea the time of day. But this feeling, that shook to Arthur's very core, told him that the stranger was right, it also screamed to him that as long as the stranger was allowed near him, it would eventually mean a severe end to himself. It screamed danger.

Arthur grumbled irritably and shook the odd feelings and bad memories out of his head, 'I've been working all day, the exhaustion is just finally catching up to me...' He placed the vacuum in the closet and headed toward the kitchen, 'Perhaps a cup of tea will calm my nerves.'

As he entered the kitchen, a sad tired sigh left him as he saw the massacre that was made all over from the contents of his pantry. 'Bloody hell...' Walking over to the stove, he started boiling water, 'I forgot all about the blasted kitchen...' He took another look around, 'I'll take care of it tomorrow.' He wandered about the cluttered kitchen, locating his tea cup and tray amongst the chaos that was once his beautiful orderly kitchen.

As he turned around, he shrieked, dropping the tea tray he was carrying toward the stove. There, standing before him was culprit to Arthur's current predicament.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL!" The color in his face instantly drained, hurriedly, he grabbed for the nearest, sharpest object he could find; adrenaline fueling his every action, fear fueling the adrenaline, "GET OUT. GET OUT NOW." His hands firmly grasping onto the chef's knife as he faced the man that had plagued his thoughts all day. Once again, he was met with those horrifically stunning baby blues and that Cheshire grin that will forever make his skin crawl.

"Ohoho~ Now now, it's not the time to play a game of cat and mouse!" The other Arthur beamed happily and let out a chorus of mischievous giggles, "Even though those are my favorite kinds of games, I came here on another matter~!"

"Whatever it is, you won't find it here! Out I say! OUT!" The emerald eyed nation stared his intruder down, the fear disappearing to be replaced by defensive anger. Which of course, caused the platinum blond to cackle at others silliness; he did say he wasn't here for games, didn't he?

"I came here to apologize," He sighed, looking into emerald green eyes with sincerity, "I was awfully rude and I hope you understand that it was all a misunderstanding-"

"A MISUNDERSTANDING? Not only did you massacre my home but you nearly KILLED ME."

Arthur's eye twitched a bit, he really didn't like being interrupted, but for just this once he had to let it slide; after all, this Arthur would be no use to him if he was cut up and mangled.

"Yes, a misunderstanding, and to show you my apologies," He turned around momentarily, only to return holding a small platter, holding a single, beautifully decorated cupcake. It's sweet scent hitting the green-eyed defender like a brick wall. "I brought this little peace offering."

"A...cupcake..?" Arthur let his defenses down just enough so that his grip on the knife wasn't as strong, and he was daring to get closer to the other Arthur, to the cupcake.

"Yes! I bake them all the time!" A wide smile spread across his face, "Although, I wont bake them for just anyone, these are special~."

A chuckle left the shaggy dirty blond as he walked closer, picking up the cupcake and admiring the craftsmen ship of the colors and decorations adorning it. It was truly a beautiful little cake; the pink of the cake giving a hint of strawberry was a nice contrast to the swirls of cotton-candy blue and green, tiny little candy sprinkles and dashes of sugar colored the milky frosting. It smelled wonderful and looked almost too delicate to eat. Arthur stared at the treat and wondered how could food have such an innocent and child-like air to it. However, that warning at the pit of his stomach cranked up again, beating at the back of his head, pleading him to run back to the chef's knife he abandoned on his way to the delectible pastry, ignoring it he continued looking at it, "Well, you obviously can't be me in any sense." He brought the cupcake closer to his lips, blue eyes leering at him, begging him to take the bite. "Haven't you heard, I'm a terrible cook." As he finished his sarcastic remark he took a bite. A delighted 'mmmm' left his lips as his tasted the delicious flavor and let it dance in his mouth. The showmanship was no ruse to taste. 'A peace offering indeed! This man may be a lunatic, but he knows how to bake!' "Wow, this is fantastic!" He excitedly took another large bite, "What is in this?"

"Oh you know," Arthur happily began listing the ingredients, " Flour, sugar, vanilla extract, a touch of cinnamon, some eggs, a dash of nutmeg," The blue eyed baker continued listing the ingredients, his grin growing eerie as Arthur continued to eat, "And then there's your basic frosting to go on top of course. The decorating was my idea. It's so much fun to dress a dessert, don't you think~?"

Arthur couldn't answer. his chewing slowed down and he looked at his hands. the one holding the half-eaten cupcake dropped it as his hands began to shake violently out of control. He found it hard to breathe, coughing out the bit of sweet cupcake lingering in his mouth. 'Wh-what...is...goin...on...?' Even his thoughts were slowed and blurred. He blinked a few times as he felt his body go numb. He could see that his legs were shaking as badly as his hands, and looked up at the smile. That's when he noticed he had fallen to the floor. The other Arthur peered down at him lecherously. "Oh, did i forget to mention my secret ingredients?" The fallen man tried to speak, but his coughing fit and his heavy eyes kept him from answering. He tried his hardest to stay awake. "There's also some morphine, cannibis, concentrated chloroform, and a dash of arsenic never hurts! It's also amazing what some powders can do as a substitute for when you run out of sugar~"

Green eyes were begining to close, in the deep recesses of his mind, Arthur began to panic as the deadly combination of poisons began to take hold of him, cursing himself inwardly that he fell into this, and praying, praying that he could wake up.

As the unconcious nation lay limp on the floor, the impish blond scooped him up into his arms and headed toward the gateway home. Before leaping into the mirror he leaned in close to Arthur's ear. "Just you wait, this is going to be so much fun~"


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: So, this entire chapter is written in 1P! England's perspective. Seemed to fit. That said, enjoy.

The first thing that came to mind was_ the spins._

It wouldn't have been much of a surprise, considering I've woken up sick before. After a long night at the pub or at some local bar near the UN building after an aneurysm-inducing meeting, I would often find myself waking up to pains in my stomach, headaches, and a sensitivity to light. However, this time felt...different. Everything was magnified, the searing pain in my stomach was like a liquid fire, continuously boiling up and simmering down; torturing me without the relief of sickness. My head was usually accompanied with a pounding sensation, but it wasn't there. It was replaced with this dizziness; the sensation was heavy and clouded my senses. I could feel the world spinning around me, yet I was completely still. I felt my breath leaving me in short, labored pants; trying to fend off the sickness in my stomach and fighting to keep myself awake. A hardly audible sound reached nearly deafened ears, it was a groan; a pained groan that belonged to none other than myself. Before I could process why I was making such a ghastly sound, I felt it. My entire body began clenching and twitching uncontrollably; almost like a wrenching vibrating sensation that made my body contort in uncomfortable positions. Another, louder, groan escaped me as another round of seizure like twitches and shakes rocked my body. What made it worse was that I was completely stable the entire time. As much as my body forced itself to move out of pain, it was held back by my tense, aching muscles. Attempting to open my eyes, I let out cry of distress; my eyes were glued shut, refusing to open themselves. The unknown light that was shining on me was torture even to my light eyelids. I couldn't see, move, and barely hear. My senses limited, my mind muddled with confusion and fear. I was trapped.

Naturally, I tried my hardest not to panic. My body rocked again as that sick feeling bubbled up my stomach, again. I tried to move so I could relieve myself on the side of whatever I was lying on, but my body refused to cooperate. Breathing through my nose to calm myself and keep from getting sick everywhere, I relaxed as best as I could. As I laid there, the room spun and my body felt like it was floating yet everything was as heavy as a stone; the condescending nature of my predicament confusing my senses further. Remembering what had happened was difficult. It came in short little flashes,_ 'I was just done cleaning the house. It was a complete disaster... for some reason. And then I heard something... No, I didn't hear anything. Or did I? There was something there that made me look, but what?... What doesn't fit right... Who? Who was it? I also remember holding something... but what? Ugh, those damn colors keep swirling in my head! Stupid pink and blue, get out of my head!... Wait, what's this in my mouth?'_

I lick my lips and I taste a sweet, creamy substance._ 'That's familiar for sure, but where have I tasted this before?'_ My head is getting dizzy again, while faintly something told me to not taste anymore of the frosting, to spit it out immediately. Why exactly, I couldn't tell, but I decided to follow the soft warning._ 'If I can't remember how I got here, then I should think of a way out. If only I could move!' _Lazily thrashing out in frustration did little help.

I let my body relax before a second attempt to move.

Doing so was a mistake. A deep grunt followed soon after my body angrily protested my sudden movements. Sighing, I decided to wait another few minutes, although this time around I kept completely still; my muddled thoughts racing to catch up with one another and organize themselves coherently. Bitterly, a sharp voice echoed throughout the scrambled mess of my consciousness, _'It might help if you'd open your blasted eyes, git._'

"But, it hurts...So much..." My voice hardly recognizable as it gurgled out hoarsely.

_ 'Oh shut it. You're a former pirate! You've dealt with worse.'_

"Fuck you..." I cringed; this was arguably the worst part about sobering up. I tended to be accompanied by my more sober thoughts trying to "pep talk" me into snapping out of the dreaded lull of my hangovers. Ridiculous, really. Particularly now, where this obviously was no mere hangover. Yet, there was some truth in those words. I have been through worse...although this has definitely earned a place in the top five, but never mind that. As much as my body fought against any sort of movement at all, I concentrated on one thing: opening my eyes. If I could get a good look at my surroundings, I could get a good idea of where I am and get the Hell out of here. Carefully, I kept my eyes shut and started flexing the muscles; preparing them for the task soon at hand. As soon as they felt ready, I slowly opened them. A flash of bright color hit my vision, and quickly they shut, protesting loudly.

_ 'No no no,'_ I mentally scolded them, _'Stay open.'_

A loud grunt escaped me and I forced my eyes open, this time giving no consideration for the soreness and pain it caused my retinas. It took all the will I had to keep them open as they begged to be shut. However, I didn't give in just yet; if I gave way to these heavy eyelids, they would shut tightly again. And I don't know if I could pry them open a third time around. As I laid there limply, the vast, blinding light stared back at me, seeming to have no end.

Minutes passed before I noticed I was blinking. The dryness made me blink harder so my eyes wouldn't itch as much. Finally deciding that I've adjusted to the light, I looked around, gathering proper Intel on my surroundings. There wasn't much to look at. It was a small sitting room; blank walls and a couch across from me that was a plain green color, and a fireplace was behind it. It was all plain and simple, my house being much livelier than this. At least, I think this is someone's house. Anyway, I looked up toward the ceiling and was met with an overhead light that shone right above my head. Well that explains the source of the temporary blindness from earlier. The source of the light also stirs a curious thought; homes don't have lights like this unless it's a chandelier or a lamp. This most likely isn't a home...Then where am I? I guess the more important question would be how I got here. A sharp pain hit the back of my skull as I tried to back track and remember any significant events before waking up.

_'Damn it, all!' _Frustration aiding the sobering up process,_ 'Why can't I remember anything?'_ Focusing, flashes of blue and pink and the faint sickly taste of something sweet echoed in the back of my thoughts; but that was all that came up from the recesses of my mind. Of course, nothing I could make sense of right away.

I let out a huff. Enough of that, I need to figure out why my damn hands won't move! If I could get out of here and look around, I should be able to fit these bizarre details together. I took in a breath and lifted my head. A sharp pain rushed to the back, but I ignored it as best as I could, squinting in pain. I stopped; so that's what was keeping me from moving. A nice thick rope was tied around my wrists and my arms. Great, just splendid.

Even though my body is still sore and my head has a throbbing sensation, I am fully aware of my situation. I was most likely kidnapped, possibly drugged, and am now kept here. Am I a hostage? That sounds probable. What if I was brought in for questioning? If that's the case, wouldn't there be guards or someone in here with me when I woke up? Hmm, I shouldn't dwell on these thoughts. It took a few tries, but I finally got myself to sit up. I'm surprised that only my ankles are tied together and not my legs, but also thankful. Less work for me I guess. I examined the handy work on the knots and twisted my wrists to test it out. Unfortunately this person knows how to tie a knot really well. Sighing, I look around the room; off to the side there was a desk with a pen, papers, and something shiny. I tried to get a better look, but the pesky thing was angled just right so I couldn't make out what it is. There was only one option.

I squirmed a bit to position myself so I was laying on the edge of the couch, leaned back a bit, and launched myself up in a sitting position. Not only did I lose balance and fell on my side, but the throbbing in my head worsened and made me dizzy again whilst my stomach twisted and churned. I couldn't help but growl in frustration and repeat the action, doing my best to ignore the protests from my senses. Thankfully it worked this time, albeit I am still struggling to keep balance. Abandoning my pride, I clumsily got up and hopped over to the desk, it being a lot harder than I thought thanks to the stupid binds on my ankles. Examining the shiny object, I am elated to discover a letter opener. Not the sharpest thing in the world, but I can make it work.

My tied hands reached for it and grasp the handle, inwardly grateful that whoever tied my hands up decided to tie them in the front, and not behind my back.

Fiddling with the thin knife was difficult, but it finally ended with the tip face down on the desk top and my hands clumsily holding the handle. I bent my head down and opened my mouth, biting down on the end of the handle. Standing perfectly still, my hands clench together nervously as the rope rub against the sharp edge. The saliva making the task harder than it needed to be, making me bite down harder. One slip and I could seriously hurt myself. The rope was split and loosening each passing second, thank God it was working! I sped up as the binds were coming undone. With one final stroke against the metal, the rope ripped apart and fell onto the desk top.

Rubbing my wrists to ease the soreness, I take a look at the red marks wrapped around the flesh, certain spots already having a purple tinge. Unfortunately, a sure sign of bruises. Fumbling quickly with the knot that restricted my arms, the rope was steadily coming undone. Being too hasty with the cutting, I lost balance and fell, hitting my head against the table; but I have managed to free my arms none the less. Headaches and bruises will have to wait.

Throwing the rope to the side, I reached for my ankles and untied the last knot and kicked it away. As I got up, I almost fell back down, the adrenaline from me unbinding was fading, causing me to feel a bit dizzy again. Taking a few minutes, I waited for the dizzy spell to fade and my focus to return. My adrenaline came and went, I had nothing else to depend on here on out other than hope that a hasty recovery was not far away.

Taking a breather, I readied for the next step. Find out where the bloody Hell I am.

There was nothing left of the room to make use of. Leaving, I stumbled forward a bit, but straightened out and stood. The room blurred for a few seconds, but faded back into focus. I shook my head again and scanned the nearly empty room. Windows were to my right and I could see outside. Outside were gray clouds and a few buildings in the distance. I stepped toward them and looked down. This floor was a few stories too high to jump from, so I turned around. Jumping isn't an option. Across the room from where I stood was a door. Walking around the couches clumsily, I reached for the knob. The doorknob turned with ease, the door creaking open just a bit. I cautiously opened it enough to poke my head out, only to meet with an empty hall; no one was walking down it, no guards outside the door, nothing. I waited a few seconds before growing impatient and opened the door more just so I could sneak out. The door closed behind me with a quiet click.

It was a very long, wide hallway, with a few doors on each side. It was darker than the room where I was in and was strangely quiet. I decided to start by going right, since to my left was the end of the hall. As I walked, I noticed a few things. The walls are scratched and a bit dingy. There are cobwebs hanging loosely in the corners of the high ceiling, the carpet has a dusty look to it, the smell of the place musky; the thickness and age of the building giving it a claustrophobic aura to it. The chills running down my spine added to a feeling that was all together...eerie.

I turned the corner and stopped. A few doors ahead was a door slightly opened and light seeped through the crack. Voices barely audible were coming from there, lowering and rising every now and then. Whatever was going on in there, it sounded like a heated conversation. I crept closer and minded my footing as I approached said doorway. The voices were growing louder and I pressed myself against the wall. Scooting closer, feeling my nerves build up; I listened carefully for anyone coming. I looked around once more before pressing closer to the opened door, anxious to hear my captives.

"Well, now what are we going to do with him? Hell, he probably isn't even a country. Dumb ass most likely just grabbed someone he didn't like off the street." My ears perked up, that voice sounded like America, only more harsh and vulgar. Shaking my head, I continued to listen. It couldn't have been America that I just heard._'Wait…'He probably isn't even a country'"?_ My heart skipped a beat in panic, _'Who are these people that they know about the personification of countries? Only our bosses and top government officials know about that…these must be dangerous, powerful captives if they could even have an inkling about what I am.'_

"You have a point, I wouldn't put that past him. But if this man survives what England said he put him through, he has to be a country...or something. No human could survive the amount of toxins he puts in those..._pastries_. We'll give him a few more minutes to see if he wakes up, if not, we'll just toss the body and let that be that." My heart stopped as I heard a calmer, relaxed version of Germany's voice speak. The gears began turning in my head at an alarming rate as the events before I woke here began piecing together. Specifically at the words _toxins, pastries_ and the fact that they said _England_, when clearly the man they captured was England! My head began pounding harder as my thoughts wildly tried piecing things together.

"Are you kidding me? They don't even look alike!" A memory flared up in my mind:

"_Tell me, do you enjoy mocking me? You don't even look like me." _

_ "You're the one with the horrendous clothing!" _

The memory burned with frustration, the subject striking fear into me in this memory was blurred out. I couldn't tell who it was, but based on the conversation between my suspicious captives, he's responsible for drugging and capturing me, also someone they are confusing to be myself. And by the cold sweat developing on my forehead, I knew the fear and anxiety felt in the pit of my stomach was to be heeded. I stepped away from the door, no longer wanting to be any closer than I had to be.

"Couldn't we just cut him up now?" The voice was Italy's, that dolt who usually would yell about pasta during the meetings was sounding eerie and caused chills up my spine, "I mean, aren't we going to end up doing that anyway~?" This voice made my stomach churn, where the hell was I? Where on earth could I be that voices like Italy's and America's could sound so menacing. That voices that were so familiar to the Countries I've known for centuries, be duplicated by such dark men and manipulated into something…evil.

"No, let's just wait for the final verdict. If he is a country, that raises questions. Questions about where he comes from and such. Who knows? He might be useful."

"Useful how?"

"Yeah. We're wasting time on Arthur's stupid little game!"

_ 'England…Arthur?'_Again, my panicked thoughts were racing to answer my confused consciousness, _'Wait a minute-'_

The sound of a door opening echoed in the room and silenced the voices, surprising me. Luckily for me, this mustn't be the only way into the room. My musings stopped when the voices rose again.

"So what's the verdict? Is he dead?"

"Well, Gents, there's some good news, and some bad news!" My blood ran cold as I froze in place. The sickly sweet voice continued. "The good news is that he's not dead, so I was right~! He is a country." I backed away slowly. The pinks and blues clouding my memories finally made sense. "Bad news, he's missing, so he most likely escaped! Unless someone moved him without telling me, which I wouldn't be too keen on~"

I could hear them talking in escalated tones, but I just kept my pace and slowly walked away. It was Him. The man who broke into my house and trashed it. The man who threatened and almost killed me with that hideous smile. The man who claimed to be me. The man who was completely and ludicrously bonkers. The man who said he wanted peace and gave me a cupcake and... and...

If I wasn't so startled, I would have slapped myself. I was such a fool to fall for that obvious trap! And now I'm stuck here, and by the sound of it my kidnapping was indeed orchestrated by that colorful freak. Not wanting to stick around and find out what his buddies, whom sound so much like the other countries, are like. Without further hesitation, I turned on my heel and ran.

It didn't matter if my feet were clomping too hard on the floor, nor did it matter when the last remains of the drugs made my head feel woozy. Running as fast as I could and cutting corners down the hall was all that mattered. Stairs were a key to escaping. All I needed to find were some stairs. My hip throbbed as it skimmed against the corner of an out-of-place table, and made me curse to myself. I don't know how loud that was, but I had to keep moving forward. Was that a door slamming? Run faster, run faster, run faster-

A dead end mocked me. I turned around to go back, but angered voices halted me. My hand opened the nearest door and I rushed inside before I knew what was going on. It was another room; very vast and had a large table with many chairs surrounding it. A meeting room perhaps. My eyes darted frantically around the room, the thought of being caught making my blood pump loudly in my ears and drove my every labored, half-drugged move.

Almost concealed by the large chalkboard was another entrance; a set of double doors. I ran across the room, but paused when I passed the chalkboard. If they were in the same hallway as me, then I need to make it hard for them to follow me. Luckily, this was a portable chalkboard and was easy to wheel it around, except for the heaviness of the massive thing. Placing it in front of the door I came from I inspected it, deciding that a few chairs to reinforce the blockade couldn't hurt. Nodding in approval, I turned around and dashed for the double doors, practically busting them off their hinges.

Another hallway met my vision. I sighed, agitated. This is taking forever! My clouded, adrenaline filled senses frustrated with the maze like building. '_Blast, if only these petty narcotics would fucking wear off! Where the bloody Hell are some blasted stairs!' _I was mentally screaming but instantly regained focus when I heard a crash behind the doors. Frozen in place, I listened again as another crash was heard. Good, my obstacle was working, but not for long; I have to keep moving. Breathing in I kept moving and concentrated on finding stairs. I saw that to my right were other hallways branching off, but I turned to my left. Something was telling me to go down that way, with nothing else to lead off of, my instincts where my safest bet.

As I reached the end of the hall, I noticed the cold metal doors to an elevator. I pressed the down button and waited for what felt like forever, my nerves making me jump and twitch at ever slight sound, the anticipation so thick I could cut it with a knife. As I stood there, I heard far in the distance the final slam of breaking wood and a relatively pissed yell. Bullocks. The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. I cringed at how loud the bell was and jumped in, pushing the close door button several times. The damn doors wouldn't close fast enough to settle down the nerves. At last, they closed all the way and I all but punched the button with a large "L".

The elevator jolted a little before descending. The numbers above my head told me I was on the seventh floor of a twenty story building. The light on the numbers moved at a leisurely pace, giving me time to collect my thoughts. All of this was just so insane, but I had no choice to believe it, I suppose. _'Those voices I heard, they sounded so much like Italy, Germany, and America. The way they talked about me... They sounded offended to think I was a country. Why would they?...'_ A memory flooded my thought process. The man with the perverse eyes said he was a country. _'Even though he claimed to be me, he was so sure of himself. Maybe... Maybe they are countries. Could that mean I'm in-?'_

The ding of the elevator and sleek doors opening broke my train of thought. I ran out and looked around the lobby. Yes, if the flags of all the countries of the world hanging outside wasn't an indicator, the familiarity of the entrance and the fountain spraying in the middle of said large lobby did. This was the World Conference building. Yet, there was something about it. A darker feel perhaps? It was the same feel throughout the whole building, and from just looking outside, I shivered. Dark themes played a part to the atmosphere, and I felt the edge of it. I shook away the shivers and started to run again. No doubt those men heard the stupid, loud elevator upstairs.

I pushed the stubborn doors open and stumbled outside, and I gasped. This..place, this world was so heart-achingly bleak. The sky was a dark grey, parts of the city were crumpled, and the streets were empty and dirty. I blinked a few times as I tried to take it all in. It was just like back home, everything being in the right place, but it just wasn't right. A hallow empty feeling wrecked through me as I looked at my home. My chest felt heavy, this wasn't me, this wasn't my home; it was sick, dirty and poisoned. What perverse place was this that this has happened? That someone could take my land and twist it into this disgusting mess. My now sobered thoughts were filled with despair, the feeling of dread haunting me as I stared at what should have been Great Britain.

A wind blew past me and I felt something thin wrap around my calf. I was a bit startled and looked down. It was a muddy page from a newspaper, judging by the text that was visible.I picked it up and read it over briefly.

I stared. This... couldn't be right. This was about him and the other countries, but this couldn't possibly be correct! I held on to it tightly and ran down the streets, making as much distance as possible from my pursuers. I rounded behind a building and listened for anything. Nothing; good. I opened the crumpled paper again and got a better look at the men in the pictures, reading over the captions. They did resemble us, but they were so different; meaner, tougher, deadlier. All of us were contorted with a darkness I could feel just by staring at the photograph in the paper. I saw_ him_ in the photo as well with these other _countries_...he wasn't lying. _'So that's it? Am I in a paradox? This is Earth...just different. Hmm, That would be a good explanation. It would take a lot of work for a bunch of fuddy-duddies to go out of their way to make a newspaper to prove their countries. And this place, as depressing as it is, resembles a lot of Earth...well, I guess the version of Earth I'm used to. The idea is crazy, but it's the only explanation there is.' _I folded up the paper and placed it in my pocket, _'I'll need this as proof for later, if I was able to get kidnapped and brought here then that means the others are in just as much danger. I'll need to warn them as soon as I get home... that is if I can find a way home.' _I started to deduce on the possibilities of where to go to get back when the sound of footsteps echoing among the streets, silenced my thoughts.

"Damn it! Where did he go?"

"Don't worry, he couldn't have gotten far."

"Fuck, this is annoying! When I get my hands on him, I'll break his legs so he won't run off again."

As quietly as possible for tip-toeing, I turned and readied for another mad dash. Only to run right into a trash bin. The damn thing clanged against the asphalt and my palms scrapped against it. "Bloody Hell!" I cursed and ran as fast as I could. I can feel them now. Staring at me and coming after me. I frantically moved my head to my right and left. I spotted more trash bins and spilled them behind me and continued on.

"Get the fuck back here!"

I heard them struggle for a bit but I needed a better strategy. I turned a corner and was met with a maze of alleyways. I kept pushing myself forward and turned numerous times, taking as many detours as possible. Anything to loose them. A man that looked suspiciously like Japan blocked me, so I had to turn around and head another way. _'Damn, there's more? I thought it was just the four I heard!'_

I was eventually met with a fence and climbed it, leading to the more suburb area. How long have I been running anyway to get all the way out here?

I was panting and speed walking. This area is definitely familiar. It looked like my neighborhood. In fact, I know this is my, or I suppose _his_, neighborhood. A thought then occurred to me. _'If he is England, then there must be some sort of magic portal he used to break the barrier between our worlds. We are known for our magic afterall. I bet I can find it in his house.' _

The cramps in my sides made it more difficult to run, but I had no choice. They could catch up to me any minute, so I had to half sprint, half run to where I assumed the house would be. I caught sight of the isolated manor in the distance and raced there. It was unruly as far as the garden goes, which made me grimace. I take pride in it, damn it! And this git doesn't keep it groomed? And he calls himself England... I shook my head and tested the door knob. To my surprise, it opened with ease. The pastel colors made me wince but I stepped in the tacky home anyway and closed the door behind me.

It almost every way, this house was different from mine. Sure, from the outside it looked about the same, safe for the disgraceful garden, but the inside was completely bonkers. I had to squeeze my eyes shut. The colors were too much for someone who just got over from a drug overdose. I paused and thought. _'Alright then. If he is like me, which I doubt by the look of this place, he would keep his magic in the basement...That should be a good start to look.' _I took a few cautious steps and noticed something. The only real thing similar to my place was that it had the same layout. I sighed in relieve. Leaves less time wasted on exploring! _'So that means the basement should be...'_ I stepped out into the hall and faced the end of it. Sure enough, there was a door.

I practically ran into the door and opened it, only to stiffen at the sound of the front door opening.

"Arthur~ You silly git, you thought you could hide from us?"

Stepping in and closing the door without a sound, I inched toward the basement. I stood still at the bottom, my heart pounding in my ears, every step was overly cautious; my feet heavy as cement and the tension from his eerie voice threatening to choke me to death. Listening closely to the voices vibrating throughout the house, I kept moving.

"What makes you so sure he's here, ve~?"

"It's the only place he probably recognizes is all~! Poor little copycat panicked and decided to hide here at home."

"God, anything you say sounds creepy."

"Now, now, Matt, that's no way to talk to your big brother!"

"You're Alfred's brother, not mine."

"Can we just find him already? Fuck!"

"Right! Russia, go with Japan and look upstairs."

"Da."

"Canada, Alfie, and I will stay down here and look around a bit. Anyone finds him contacts everyone. Sound like a plan, chaps~?"

I backed away a bit. Obviously time is not on my side. I searched the basement silently as I heard the many footsteps above my head move about. I was ready to give up, until I tripped and was heading for a mirror that I was staring at a few moments ago. Panic rushed through me as I closed my eyes and braced myself for the feeling of sharps slivers of glass to come crashing onto myself. Out of instinct, I stretched out my arms so the fall wouldn't be too painful as I felt myself get closer and closer. It wasn't even the thought of the pain that scared me so much; it was the thought of what these people would do to me that made me cringe at my damn clumsiness. I never felt the impact. Instead, I felt the hard floor of the basement.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Sorry for taking so long to update. Between school and work things have been hectic. Alas, good readers, be assured that the story is seriously going to pick up after this chapter; we're both super excited and we've already started later chapters. Thank you all for your patience, enjoy chapter four.

England moaned as his face and right side smashed against the hard, dusty concrete of the basement floor. He gritted his teeth and lay there, waiting for the pain to subside a bit before getting up. He blinked and looked around. Slowly, he visibly relaxed and groaned, rolling onto his back. Everything was familiar to him; at last, he was home.

Shaking his head, he attempted to ease himself up, staggering a bit as the room spun from the remaining effects of the drugs as he found his balance. Still hunched over, he continued to pick the rest of himself up. The process to stand up was taking forever, making him even angrier that he was even like this in the first place.

Taking a step, he fell and caught on to a box and groaned more out of annoyance. His breathing hitched as he felt bile rise up in his throat. The adrenaline rush that guided and drove his panicked, quick steps before, had now faded and the poisons weren't done making him miserable just yet. He threw up onto the basement floor and grimaced. "Damn…" His moaned shakily as the smell of his sick reached his nose, causing him to release bile yet again. He coughed painfully and covered his nose as he turned away from it, seeing the railing for the stairs.

Arthur stepped clumsily around his mess and grabbed onto the railing and took his first step up. Suddenly remembering he was being chased, hastily he looked back at the mirror. No one had come through yet. The thought made him shiver as the fear filled him again, giving him enough energy to take two steps. He paused as he felt sick again and slumped back against the stairs, much to his dismay as a helpless, panicked heap. His own pathetic state making his blood boil, not only of self disapproval but of urgency; he had to get out of that basement, out of that house, he had to, _needed_ to get out of there and warn the others.

This need became the power in his movement as he forced himself up again, clinging to the rail and making his led-like limbs surge up the stairs; only to collapse again against the railing after just four steps. Just then, a light came pouring in, a silhouette blocked out the door. Arthur didn't bother to see who it was, or more so, his head throbbed to much to bother to look up.

"England, are you- Mon Dieu!" The heavy accented voice gave England little relief. He heard footsteps hurriedly coming down to him and felt hands on his shoulders. "England what happened to you? You look more awful than you normally do!" a short pause and a disgusted noise, "England, why didn't you tell me you were sick?"

"I am not… sick…you frog." The man looked up and met cerulean eyes and wavy blonde hair. "France, I am not-" He stopped and breathed a heavy, struggled sigh; the threat of being sick again silencing him.

The Frenchman pouted. "Oh yes you are." He crossed his arms and held an expression of annoyance. "If you were sick you should have least called! I was looking for you in your tacky English home for twenty minutes!" He huffed. "I felt bad for you that your car was towed at the last meeting, so I thought I would do something nice for you, but no! You have to turn around and be an asshole about it! No text, no call, nothing! Even if you are sick, that's still rude!"

"Shut up!" England shouted at him, and then regretted it. He turned away from the nation and released more toxins from his stomach, all the while coughing and groaning. _'At least this time I feel a bit better…'_ He thought while he held his empty stomach. He sighed at the fuzzy feeling of the drugs finally starting to wear off without the assistance of adrenalin.

France frowned sympathetically. "Well, I could help you I guess." He reached around the shorter blonde and hoisted him up. He led him up the stairs and out of the basement.

England struggled, "Where are you taking me to, frog?!"

France still dragged him and spat back, "To bed, you ungrateful jerk! You are sick and need rest, not wallow in your damp, old, smelly basement all day!"

"My basement doesn't smell!" _'Well, it didn't…'_ England paused in his protest. "Wait, no, I have to go to the meeting! I have important news to tell everyone."

France stopped as they were ascending the staircase, staring at England, baffled. "…You are not going to the meeting. You look terrible and smell of something awful." He thinks for a bit. "And you're sick."

Arthur glares at him. "I'm going to ignore that last comment. I'm fine! I have to go to the meeting and warn everyone!"

"Warn every one of what?" The man moved his hands to get a better grip of the stubborn nation and started to trudge up the stairs. "There is nothing for you to be concerned of right now. You just need to take some time off, and-"

"Damn it if I don't go to that meeting right now, a bunch of blood thirsty madmen are going to come out of that mirror and kill us all!" Arthur thrashed violently to get out of France's hold, his voice as strained and desperate as his movements.

France stared at him before putting his hand up to his forehead. "Do you have a fever, too? You sound delirious…"

Arthur gave him a look that would murder and spoke in a serious tone. "Francis Bonnefoy, get me to the damn car and drive to the meeting before I strangle you."

There was silence between the two until the Frenchman sighed. "Fine, but if you throw up in my car, I'll kick votre cul désolé out of my car."

Francis still held onto Arthur as they headed for the car, occasionally taking cautious glances at the Englishmen; not only did he not want his car ruined, but he had on a new, and very expensive, shirt and he'd be damned if some smelly, stubborn scone-eater was going to ruin it.

Driving to the UN building, they didn't say a word to each other; a few times France would look over at the sick-looking Englishman only to see eyes darting about nervously and the nation squirming in his seat impatiently. Nervous and starting to become more genuinely concerned, France tried to lighten the heavy mood that seemed to hang over them.

"I noticed your petunias are blooming. Your garden will never be as gorgeous as mine, but they look nice."

"Uh-huh."

"…I still can't believe you kept most of your hideous furniture. We are not in the Victorian Age anymore!"

"Yes, yes, just keep driving."

"You know-"

"Just drive! We have to get there before it's too late."

The uneasiness and lack of a usual sarcastic response from the short-tempered, self-proclaimed gentleman made Francis nervous. He turned the wheel as the question popped in his head and stuck there. "Anglettere, who are these people you were talking about?"

"I'll explain when we get there. Can you please just drive faster?"

He slowly nodded his head and sped up. It wasn't long until they pulled up to the World Conference building. They were fifteen minutes late. The street was lined up with seven cars, most foreign, and, to France's embarrassment, an Italian car was parked poorly showing that even Italy made it before they did. England didn't seem to care as he bolted out of the still moving car, causing France to slam on the brakes out of surprise and England nearly choking himself with unbuckling his seat-belt, and ran up the steps and through the double doors.

France hurriedly parked the car and shook his head. He got out and walked up the building leisurely, stepping inside and seeing an ever impatient Arthur pushing the up button of the elevator rapidly. "England," he called out.

Arthur sighed irritably. "Damn this thing, it needs to hurry!" He pressed hard against the button, the poor plastic thing a victim against the pressure.

France slapped his hand away from the machine. "Stop! You'll break it, you idiot!" He stared at England, ready to scold him, but the words never came out. France wasn't met with the usual angry, stubborn green eyes that would try to one-up him in every fight. These eyes were afraid. The rest of him looked desperate, but after many centuries of knowing the island nation, France knew fear when he saw it in those eyes.

The doors to the elevator opened and Arthur rushed in, smashing the poor button again. France slid in as the doors began to close and pushed England's hand aside gently. "What are you doing!? We need to get up there as fast as we can!"

The doors closed and the warm metal box lurched up. "I know, but you need to calm down. We're here now," France stepped back to give him air. "I said I would take you here only because it's an emergency. If you keep acting like this, I'll take you home and tell everyone your sick… maybe even crazy."

England glared at him, but his eyes were downcast. He wouldn't admit it, but France was right. As urgent as it was to warn everyone, he needed to calm down. Otherwise everyone would think him mad.

The doors opened and England was the first out. He wasn't racing, but his footsteps kept a fast pace as they reached the door. He opened them and several eyes fell on him and France as he tagged along behind him.

The dirty blonde man with a brown bomber jacket at the front of the room was the first to speak. "Yo dudes! You're totally late! What gives?" His booming voice was light and his smirk was both egotistical and happy.

"Sorry for being late everyone, but I was looking for him in his house for twenty minutes before I found him being sick in his basement." France shook his head.

"What England's sick?" Everyone turned to the nerve-wrecked nation.

"Aiya, why did you come here if you are sick?"

"I'm terribly sorry that you are sick England."

"You really don't look so good either. You should stay in bed and rest, da?"

"Si! Rest is always the best if you are feeling sick!"

"Ja, and you shouldn't come here in the first place, or else we will get sick, too." The last man to speak had platinum blonde hair that was short and slicked back, with piercing blue eyes. He stood up and walked next the dirty blonde. "America, maybe you should take England home?"

"No! I am fine! Honestly!" Arthur spoke up hastily. "I am not like this because I am sick! I am like this because a lunatic drugged me, and he and his friends were going to kill me! I don't know what's worse: that they are nations as well in some parallel universe, or that they might have followed me here and might try to kill you all off as well!"

An awkward silence fell in the room. "Um... what?"

The Englishman grunted. "I was kidnapped by a man who claimed to be me. I thought he was speaking utter nonsense, until I woke up in his world. I found out that what he said was true; he is me, only a darker, sinister version of me." He looked at the confused and concerned faces around him. "I'm serious! And not only was there another me, but other versions of all of you, too! I overheard them talking and they're coming after us! I escaped through a mirror before they could catch me, so we have to hurry and tell the other nations about this threat!"

Arthur breathed in to catch his breath and stared at the nations before him, waiting for some sort of reply. He frowned at their faces. Each one looked sympathetic and concerned, meaning that they did not believe him.

America was the first to speak. "England, dude, what are you on?"

That made him furious. "How dare you! I'm not high, you twat! Here!" He reached down into his pocket to grab the newspaper he stowed away earlier, "I have proof! See!" Frantically, he waved the old, dirty paper about; however, his desperate actions only made the other nations' faces contort into more concern.

"England, please try to calm down-"

"I'm perfectly calm China!" He yelled.

A large hand rested on his shoulder. England turned his head to meet the blue eyes of Germany. "I think you should calm down and rest, England. You are not yourself." Arthur felt like screaming in frustration.

"England..." A soft voice spoke. A man with shoulder length, wavy hair stepped forward. His kind blue eyes matched his small smile as he spoke. "I'll take you home and you can tell me about it. No offense intended, but everyone here came to discuss other matters. You seem very worked up and I think it would be best to take you home now. We can always come back..."

"He's right, Anglettere."

Arthur sighed in defeat, "Though I understand your point... um, who are you again?"

"I'm Canada..." The man replied half-heartily.

"Um, right, Canada. Though I appreciate your thoughts, that still doesn't change the fact that a bunch of lunatics will barge in here any second and do horrible things to us!" A collective groan was heard from everyone. Just when they thought he settled down, he starts up again. "I can't do this alone! These countries are not to be underestimated. I overheard them talking about what they would do to me, I can't imagine what it would be if it was all of us! We need to stop them before it's too late!"

"Now that is just rude." Arthur froze. "Telling everyone a bunch of rumors before they even know us! You are a silly one~!"

Arthur, momentarily paralyzed through fear, looked upon his comrades; their faces stuck expressing a mixture of confusion and shock. He didn't need to turn around to know who had barged in unannounced…who had followed him to this very room. The eerie voice itself was enough to settle in panic and adrenaline into his very core. Carefully, his turned his frame; only to be faced with the platinum blonde, freckled nightmare.

"You…." His voice came out in a soft, terrified breathless whisper. His eyes traveled from baby blue to various shades of red and violet, behind his counterpart followed the owners of the various other voices he heard in the meeting room, the halls and the streets as he desperately made his way back to his own home. Standing alongside the twisted nation, were the others, all perfectly standing so that they mirrored their other selves. Arthur's stomach twisted and cringed with anxiety as he frantically back away.

However, the nations beside the emerald eyed Englishman looked on in disbelief. In the past, they had seen England talking to thin air: conversing with a 'flying mint bunny' and 'faeries'; he also spoke often of the infamous magic he could perform and curses, at one point he apparently made friends with a small girl in a quaint hospital a few centuries ago, claiming that she begged him to take away a peculiar mirror that made her sicker; terrified her…all stories that they would brush off and ignore, or hurriedly send him home insisting he rest. But as they looked on and met eyes with these characters from his most recent story, their blood ran cold.

"Why, yes, me!" The bow tie wearing nation answered gleefully, "I have to admit, we were all a bit surprised at how quickly you got away!" He clasped his hands together and leered at his nerve wrecked opposite, "After all, my delicious cupcakes usually make people incapable of awakening for hours!" A series of light hearted cackles followed. "You are such a quick little scamp!"

Realization was flooding in, Arthur was telling the truth, he had always told the truth. The countries analyzed their counterparts, taking in the different coloration of eyes and hair, the taste in clothing, and worst of all…the feel. Dread, hopelessness and a sinister darkness lingered in their wake; drowning the lighter hearted nations and without word, instilling undeniable raw fear. There was an old world cruelty that seemed to seep from the very pores of the invading nations as they stared them down, not just acknowledging them, but slowly taking in every detail, fishing out weaknesses and envisioning how to rip them into bloody scrap.

England gathered nerve to speak, "The bloody hell, I did! What the hell are you doing here?!" The fear was momentarily washed away from him, desperation filling him up, a desperation that spoke to him, begging him to not let these invaders venture any further in this world, that if they did; it would be the end.

"Well, old chap, what do you think?" A stream of giggles accompanied the rhetorical question, a darker, deeper voice followed, "We certainly aren't here on Holiday."

"Shit." An exasperated, bored sigh let the lips of a particular red eyed, brunette American, "This is taking way too fucking long." A cocky grin plastered on his face as he pulled out his familiar, rather large wooden baseball bat, riddle with white bandage, crooked nails and, as the kind spirited blonde American noticed with disgusted horror, blood.

"Ve~!" A gleeful, Italian voice chimed, as he took out is long knife; red eyes resting on it before traveling to the shaken, terrified Italian mirroring him, "Let's kill them already."

Before anyone could process, the American lunged toward his stunned counterpart, effectively bashing him in the side, tossing him across the room. The dirty blond let out a surprised cry in pain as he held his new wounds in his side, the cries were met with full-hearted, dark laughter.

"Man!" The brunette laughed harder, "This'll be fucking easy!"

"Si! Si!" The red eyed Italian held a whimpering mess, his blade caressing the pasta loving nation's face, savoring the moment before he'd make a lovely scar, "Look how easy they squirm!"

"G-Germany!" The familiar, desperate wail immediately caused said nation to whirl around and rip the sadistic Italian off his unarmed and frightened ally. Before he could see to any cuts, he was ripped away from the crying Italian and held by a pair of firmly toned arms.

"I don't think you want to do that. Italy really doesn't like being interrupted." The calm, unnerved German accent caused the blond to look upward, only to see himself, but with a long scar along the right cheek, a hat, and a bored, almost tired look on his face. As he struggled, the German did nothing but just kept him there.

"If you're going to kill me, why not do it already?" The captured German's voice thick with struggle in the other's grip.

"Because, Germany knows by now that I prefer the killing." The red eye Italian growled as he headed toward the Germans, "And he also knows better than to interrupt me~" He gripped his knife as his fingers forcefully tugged blue eyed German's chin upward, tilting it to the right. "Looks like you need to learn this lesson just like he did~" He mused as his knife made it's familiar route to the flesh, only to be cut off by a Japanese man's katana.

"Leave him alone." The silent sovereign nation said as the force of his blade knocked the knife out of the attacking nation's hand. This made said nation laugh as he quickly retrieved his blade, Japan quickly following behind.

America, gripping onto his side had managed to grab a chair and break it, effectively grabbing one of the broken legs and tossing it to England while grabbing one himself, using them as makeshift clubs to block the attacks of the eager and ever pursuing twisted England and America.

"Dude! England!" America's voice pained, as he blocked another attack, "How did this even happen?" He cringed as he had to quickly move to the left, straining the torn muscles on his wounded side.

"I told you!" England worked quickly and diligently to both protect himself and aid the American, "He," as his gestured toward the other Englishman as he came at him with his chef's knife, "Just waltzed in my house! He used the mirror in our basements!"

"Dude! That doesn't even make sense-!"

"Fuck! Would you shut up! If you say 'dude' one more time, I'll bash your skull in!" The ill-tempered American made a swing for Alfred's head, and barely missed; his strikes fueled by annoyance that the blondes in front of him weren't pools of blood and entrails by now.

On the other side of the room, a tall brunette Russian held out his bloodied pipe, eyeing his counterpart and the Chinese man next to him; he said nothing as he stared them down, contemplating patiently who to hit and where to hit first. Seeing said bloody pipe, the other beige haired Russian let out a low chuckle.

"Kolkolkolkol…"The Asian country looked over to see a purple aura appearing around his Russian neighbor. "So you have a pipe too, da? This will be interesting." With that, the scowl on the other Russian's face furthered as the other smiled eerily. The smile pulled the other to the edge and he attacked with his bloody pipe, going straight for the solar plexus, only to be blocked by another, cleaner pipe. Grunting, the red eye Russian quickly changed tactic and attacked the unsuspecting Chinese man, effectively tossing him into the conference table and bashed him in the chest. Angrily and vengefully, Russia attacked the other going straight for his head; but the other saw this and blocked it. Deep, painfully loud clangs of metal smacking together echoed throughout the battle scene of the large conference room as the Russians fought.

France avoided the fight as soon as it started. Standing in the side lines, he panicked when he saw both Italy and China wounded. He dragged both away from the others as fast as he could, dodging the swings and hits meant for the others. Looking toward America, he grimaced; said nation's wounds only worsening as he continued to fight, but France couldn't risk trying to help him at this point, he would just have to wait and hope America could make it through this fight.

Once they were safe on the other side of the room he kept an eye on the others fighting, hoping that he didn't have to get involved to much. Luckily, Canada rushed to the aid of both Italy and China as the other nations fought, seeing to their wounds, more so China's than Italy's. France helped by aiding Italy so the Canadian could concentrate more on the Asian nation.

As often as he could, Canada look over his shoulder, not only taking note of what was happening in the battle to see if he had to see to anyone else; but anxiously waiting to see if the other invading nations would attack as well. He looked see the other China, France, Canada and Japan just standing there, their body language showing no sign of getting involved. Instead, their eyes intently on the battle before them, observing, almost as if they were taking notes and studying…it made him uneasy. Though a good half of these invaders were hasty and wanting to get things over quickly, fueled by their emotions and blood-lust; the other half were the calculating type, the silent predators that analyze and stalk their prey, studying their habits and seeking weaknesses before striking; these were the nations to look out for the most, not the overly aggressive attackers. Canada's analysis was interrupted with a pair of aviators met his shy, violet-blue eyes. Chills ran up his spine as the eyes behind the sunglasses peered straight through him, piercing him. For all the times Canada wished he was noticed, he would take said wishes back if it meant that the Mounty clad Canadian would just look away at this very moment.

A loud crash snapped Canada out of his thoughts as Germany broke free from the other's grasp, effectively tossing him into the broken heap that was once a conference table.

"Retreat!" He yelled in a panic manner and his fellow nations followed as quickly as they possibly could, barely escaping through the various doors that lead out of the conference room. America, England and Italy went to chase them down when a stern strong voice stopped them.

"Stop. Let them go, we've seen enough." The three nations turned to see Canada adjust the aviators on his face.

"Damn it, Matt!" America punched a nearby wall and threw his bat down, "We were so fucking close! I only needed one more hit!"  
"And you'll get that hit." The Canadian shrugged, annoyed at his brother's temper, "Like I said, we've seen enough. They were way too predictable." The last sentenced he said in a short, bitter laugh.

It took about an hour until the retreating nations were able to successfully meet up in the same vacant room in the UN building and escape to a disclosed location where they finally felt safe. No words were exchanged as they settled in, the only noises that were heard were Canada tearing and fastening bandages on the wounded nations. England fumed in the corner, his stress contagious as they all thought the same thing.

"What…are we going to do?" Germany broke the silence, voicing what was clouding everyone's thoughts. "England," his stern electric blues dimmed, his face solemn, "What…exactly happened? What did you hear?"

A long, frustrated sigh escaped him as he felt eyes from every direction rest on him. England stayed quiet for a few moments, when he finally spoke, his voiced strained and tired, "….None of you ever believed me before…." He shook his head slowly, not making eye contact with any of them, focused on nothing in particular, "Most of you treat me like I'm crazy, or that I make things up." His voice was thick with frustration, "But I never, _ever_, lied. To any of you about the things I've seen….ever." He took in a deep breath, "These men…come from a parallel universe, they are us, but they're different, twisted; as if you couldn't already tell." He paused, "They plan to kill us, gentlemen. And as you witnessed yourself, they mean business. They may resemble us in some ways, but I assure you; they are not us in the slightest. How they got here…well, that's something you can let me worry about."

"No! You will tell us everything!" German angrily interrupted, "It is your fault they even found us here-!"

"DON'T." England lashed out, "Say. That. Again." He shook furiously, "It is true, in some ways that it is my fault that they came here; but do not forget. DO NOT FORGET. That _I _was kidnapped by them, _I_ was poisoned, and _I_ tried warning all of you that they were coming and you all looked at me like I had seven heads! How they got here is not your concern! What you need to concern yourselves with is preparing to fight, because they will be back. These men are here to stay and there can't be one world with two Englands, or two Chinas, or two Germanys. We will be hunted, and it's up to us if we'll perish or if we make them regret the day the stepped foot here. Understand?"

They all looked at each other before every head gave a short nod. "Then..." Japan spoke up. "What do you propose we do?"

They were all silent. Eyes darted across each nation as the same thought crossed there mind. What was the best thing to do?

China tapped a finger to his chin thoughtfully. "England, were they the only nations that came here? Do you remember seeing any others, or rather, hearing others?"

England was pensive for a moment, but shook his head. "No, I'm sure those nine were the only ones that came through."

China nodded, brow furrowed as the wheels turned. "We should find a way to get rid of them before this matter gets worse..."

"China... You mean send them back to their world, right?"

China glared at the American. "Of course that's what I meant! What else did you think I meant?"

"Whoa, chill out dude!"

Japan spoke up. "What about the other nations? Should they know what is happening?"

"Yes, I believe so. It's only fair..."

"No, then there would be panic everywhere. We can't have that-"

"So we just keep everyone in the dark? Oh that's fair!"

"I think that-"

"We should fight them head on! As the Hero, I say we-"

"Don't be foolish! Did you see what happened when we tried to go against them? We could have died if we didn't retreat!"

"That's because we weren't prepared! And not all of us were fighting... France."

"Don't blame this all on me!"

"EVERYONE SHUT UP!" The bickering stopped as all eyes fixed on Germany, the one who stayed quiet through out the argument. He spoke again. "This is a very dangerous situation and we can't rush into this or else we will loose," his voice was gravelly serious. "I say we go to our homes and rest. It's been very stressful today and we're speaking of ideas out of panic."

Italy frowned. "Home? Alone?" A tear pricked at the corner of his eye.

"We'll keep in contact. Get prepared and raise your defenses. Tomorrow we will meet elsewhere and discuss strategies in a calmer state."

"What about our neighbors? Should we warn them?"

"If we have to, then yes."

The Englishman shook his head. "I don't think that is the best idea..."

"You have a better idea?"

Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but stopped. Germany did have a point. They couldn't just rush into battle. If anything the nations learned after all the wars they have been through, it is not to go in without a proper plan. He sighed.

Germany nodded solemnly. "Right. Everyone, good luck."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: After many months of me procrastinating, I've finally got off my lazy, writer's blocked ass and went to work on starting this now completed chapter. Kat's the real reason this chapter, and my lazy bones, got up and running. Here's to you, Kat. Cheers! (Oh and our New Year's resolution is to get this story done. Think we can do it? I think so.) –Jax Well, Jax did a really good job adding lots of detail to this chapter. Without her it wouldn't be as exciting. Can't say when the next chapter will be posted but we promise to get this story done asap!-Kat

The streetlights began to dim to a gentle orange glow against the vacant streets and alleys around the long ago emptied UN building. A quiet, ominous breeze blew through, as the crickets in nearby bushes silenced their songs. Not a person walked by, hardly any noises were heard in the sleeping streets as dawn threatened to approach.

It had been a long night; no one got any sleep as they discreetly and quietly moved about throughout the night, like shadows, escaping their blood thirsty counterparts. Quickly after their meeting ended, hours earlier, they dispersed silently; each trying to calculate how they could defeat their counterparts. Fear stretched alongside them with every movement they made, an uncertainty lingered in the back of their minds, feeding the fear, adding to an anxiety that threatened to choke them. What were they capable of? How exactly were they different? And most importantly, how much did they know about them and this world? However many questions swirled through their minds, one thing was definite: to go home and raise the defenses, to not allow them to invade their soil and ravish it, conquer it. From the UN building's fiasco, they could tell that these men would not stop simply after disposing them; they would spread, like a virus, poisoning their Earth.

A particular Frenchman made his way back to the UN building; cautiously he crept about the parking lot, his senses keen on depicting any danger. When he felt it was safe, he quickly made his way to his vehicle and started the journey home. The first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon and painted his paled, worried expression. While the world outside his car began to awaken and start a new day leisurely with a light and airy manner, inside the car was dark, cold and silent. Francis was lost in the deep recesses of his mind, fishing for ways he could handle this, handle himself. Attempting to remember the fight that had taken place nearly a day ago was proving to be a chore. It was all so quick, the red adrenaline blurring the memory; making it faint. However, he refused to let go, he had to remember what the other France was like if he had any hope to gain an advantage.

Closing in on his home, Francis sighed heavily, all he could remember from the fight was America and England being brutally pursued, China being immediately immobilized while hearing Russia's pipe clang continuously with another…he grunted angrily, _'What the hell were the others doing?_'As he parked, he sighed, resting his head on the steering wheel, _'Is it that I really can't remember, or that the other England, America and Russia were the only ones attacking? Which isn't useful for me at all.'_ The memory of Italy's shriek jolted through his mind, _'Right…'_ He thought of the magenta eyed Italian and cringed. _'Hopefully he'll be okay….'_

As he walked past his elegant, petite garden, a strained hand rummaged through his hair, the dark circles under his eyes reflected on what little sleep he had, also what the stress in past twenty four hours had done to him. Another deep, exasperated sigh left him, _'I need sleep. My mind will clear up and I can think straight if I get some rest.'_

His eyes where fixed on his right pocket as he dug for the keys, his left hand reaching for the doorknob, routinely, as they always did. Normally, he'd grasp onto the handle as he clasped onto his keys, simultaneously. However, he froze in place, his heart stopping as his eyes slowly lifted from his pocket, keys in hand, and to the door. His hand held nothing but air, the door to his home already opened.

He stared at the opening crack with racing thoughts as an unpleasant shiver crossed over his body. His hands were shaking causing the keys to jingle a little. He nervously shook his head and breathed in rapidly, an attempt to calm himself.

"Per...Perhaps one of the servants forgot to close the door." He laughed to himself uneasily, a poor attempt to calm himself, "Yes! That must be it." He remembered that today was usually the day his housemaids would run errands; moving to and fro, in and out of the house quite often. Silently, he begged that this was the reasoning behind the already opened door, taking in a shaky breath and seized his increasing hyperventilation episode. A few more deep breaths and his hand hesitated in pushing open the door open more and stepping into his home.

He glanced around the entrance hall as he stripped himself of his jacket, and began to relax more since nothing seemed to be out of place. His movements began to be more fluid and confident, seeing no sign of a break in or anything of the sort; as he set up his expensive jacket up on the coat rack next to the door and moved down to start untying his black shoes, an exasperated sigh left his lips, "Everything's alright," A relieved chuckle left him, "Nothing to worry over-" A loud crash sounded throughout the halls.

Francis's eyes widened as he looked up in alarm; his body froze in place for a moment and against his senses telling him to turn the other way, he rushed to source of the sound. Making a left, he passed the foyer toward the living room. The arch attaching said two rooms revealed enough of the room ahead of him, the scene he saw making him stop, step back, and hide in the shadows. He swallowed rather thickly and stared on.

There, sitting on one of his plush couches, was one of the men from earlier. Despite the fact that this particular guest didn't attack earlier, as some of his companions did, it didn't take Francis long to figure out who he was. This man had shoulder-length blonde hair, much like Francis', only paler and dingy. His eyes were dull and his skin just a shade darker than his own. His lavender shirt and dark pants were wrinkled and seemed dirty. His beard was shaggy, needing a good shave, and a cigarette hung from his mouth. His legs were crossed and his eyes narrowed at the maid who was cleaning up what looked like a broken porcelain cup.

"I apologize, Mr. Bonnefoy," Francis recognized the maid with auburn hair as Antoinette, one of his favorites. "Please excuse me-" She never finished her apology as the copy cat puffed smoke into her face, causing her to cough.

"Did I tell you that you could speak?" His voice was harsh but also bored. He lazily looked her up and down. "Clean this up and get into something more decent. If you're going to dress like a whore, you should be sucking my cock, instead of doing a sorry excuse of housework." He took another long drag, "By the way you made that mess, I'm guessing that's all you're good at any way."

Francis fumed. _'How dare he say that about-!'_ Antoinette's small, sweet voice interrupted his thoughts. "But, sir... You have us wear these." Francis could hear her tears. "It's not my-"

The man glared at her and leaned in close to her, his presence menacing. "Did I stutter or something? Stop your pathetic tears and clean this up, unless you want me to give you something to cry about."

The young woman rubbed her eyes, picked up the pieces, and was about to stand until she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up and gasped, dropping the pieces onto the floor, effectively making another loud crash. Francis lifted her chin up gently, "Mon cherie, go home for today." The man on the couch watched with a bored expression as the woman looked between the two men, stunned. Incoherent words fell from her lips as she backed up. She turned, quickly leaving the room with haste. Francis watched her leave; then turned to the man on the couch.

"Who the hell do you think you are coming into my home and treating my servants like that?!"

Dull, indigo eyes narrowed at bright blue ones as he put out a cigarette into the couch.

France cried out horrified. "Por Quoi!? Do you have any idea how expensive that was!? What do you think you're-"

"Tais-toi...Mon nom est Francis. As of now, this is my house. I can do whatever I damn well please." He lazily took out another cigarette, lighting it, and taking a long drag; knowingly ignoring and irritating the angry, flustered man before him.

Francis cheeks flushed with anger. This man wasn't scary or intimidating at all. He was... just an ass! He scoffed, "You really have some nerve, coming in here and acting like you own the place! You break into my house, insult my respectable working staff, and ruin mes _meubles très cher-_" He looked down at the man's dirtied brown loafers in disgust. "And you didn't wipe your feet and put them on my coffee table! You know, for someone who is supposed to be intimidating, you're not! To think, I was scared of you moments before entering the house! You are just a poor excuse-"

"If you don't shut up before I count to five, you'll regret it." The other Francis stood up.

Francis stuck his nose in the air. "What? Are you trying to intimidate me, cochon? You don't scare me; you're just rude and I want you out of here this instant!" He pointed his finger toward the way he came in.

He was met with a hard expression. "...One." He turned and walked toward the wall.

"Are you deaf? I said get out!"

"...Two." He stepped closer to the wall. On it hung pictures and artifacts France collected over the centuries.

Francis shook his head, too upset to pay attention to the other man in the room, nor his actions. "I can not believe this! You ass! That's it; I'm cleaning this mess up and then I'm kicking you out!" He reached over into a desk and pulled out a rag and started to wipe up the mud off the table. He scrunched his nose in disgust, "Only men like pigs keep themselves like this! Good Lord-"

"Three..."

"-You're worse than England!-"

"Four."

"O, Mon Dieu! I can't believe this, this is just-" A steel blade slashed briskly across France's face, stopping his rant with ease. Stunned, Francis looked to see on of his favored sabres in the hands of the intruder, a thin line of blood coated its tip. Looking at the wall a few feet from them, he saw its twin hanging by itself.

"Five."

Francis' line of vision followed the blade up to the culprit of the newfound cut on his face, wide blue eyes stared into the dull indigos, which were now filled with a layer of malicious intent. While Francis let his guard down, the other grabbed one of the sabres, a personal favorite fencing weapon of his.

He raised the sword and swung it down. Francis rolled away as the blade cut through the fabric of the couch with ease, grimacing at the thought that his head was once there. Hastily, he got up as the other worked the weapon out of the furniture, and made his way toward the other still on the wall.

The blade was freed from the sofa, allowing Francis to lunge toward the other Frenchmen. He caught his ankle, causing France to fall just a foot away from the wall. The other grunted angrily as he went for a fatal blow to the head, annoyed that the country before him was still around, making him actually_ work_ and make an _effort_ to kill him. Francis kicked the hand away and rolled to the left, effectively dodging the attack. Quickly he got up and made another move for the sabre; the other France seeing this and blocked his way to the wall, swinging again. As the blade went down, missing France, said man took this opening and threw a strong punch directly into the other's scruffy jaw; effectively knocking him down and giving himself time to grab the other sabre.

The two stared each other down, both with a grim, fierce intensity that was a foreign expression to both countries; one always looking so full of life and love, the other dull and bored. The tension was building between the two and was becoming too much for the darker one to manage. He made the first strike, putting his opponent in the defense. He smirked sickly at that; nothing gave him more thrill than to be the one in power, in control. Their swords clashed as they fought, steel scraped together, making shrill scratching sounds against one another, as they moved briskly throughout the room. Francis was stepping back at the powerful thrusts of the more aggressive Frenchman's moves. Nervously he looked around, watching his step so he wouldn't trip. He forgot the cup that broke on the floor, the crunching sound distracting him for a split second.

That was all the time the other needed; he kicked Francis in the stomach, sending him instantly down on the floor, his foot firmly on his chest, pressing the weight down onto his chest cavity. The other yelled in pain and squirmed, yet he stubbornly held on to his sword. The Frenchmen above began an onslaught of strikes; mercilessly attacking the man on the ground and as time went on he pressed more so down on the other's chest. Frantically, Francis blocked the strikes, however the increasing pressure on his ribs was getting to him, and his breathing was ragged. However he refused to give up, until the other had had enough. He lifted his foot from Francis' chest, only to step on his wrist the held the sabre, his other foot slamming onto his chest. A loud, choked cry left him, as the other fumed above him.

"This has been going on far too long than I would've liked." His voice was coated in venom, his eyes held a hatred for the tender hearted nation that refused to give in. France's breathing was rapid and panicked, another cry escaped him has he heard and felt a crack in his chest. He stared into that cold face with its twisted smirk it as a deep chuckle left it, "Now then..."

The Italian man's eyes scanned the room of the bright home. The sun was coming up and the windows were open, allowing the first rosy rays of dawn to pool into the sitting room. He did a once over of the room and nodded; it was like any other villa in Italy. There were a few lounging chairs and a nice couch accompanied with a table and a few lamps and desks, all Italian products, of course. Various pictures hung off the walls and at least two mirrors were among them.

He blinked and walked over to one of the collages on the sandy wall, his black boots tapping on the wooden floor ominously. The pictures showed an auburn man with an old curl, much like his own, with his eyes closed and a constant smile on his face. Feliciano tsked at the expression, he was way too happy for his own good. He smiled to himself as he thought of various ways how he could wipe that stupid smile off his face. For good. The grin grew wide and he took out his all too familiar blade and stroked it with a gloved hand affectionately. Oh yes, how he would enjoy making this one squirm and writhe with pain. He licked his lips, betting to himself how satisfying it will be, how this victory will _taste_.

He laughed to himself. The pictures began to bore him, the only others in the pictures looked to be dull versions of his... companions, Germany and Japan. He shook his head and crossed the room toward the shelves that hung next one of the broad windows. Over here were even more pictures and even some books. The picture held the same people as the collages he just saw, so he let out a bored sigh. Knife in hand, he began twirling it between his fingers, a sign he was growing impatient with waiting.

"I do hope he comes home soon. It's not nice to keep a guest waiting and all~ Huh, what's this..." A picture of the auburn-haired Italian with a new face caught his eye. This man looked similar to him, only his curl was lower, his hair a darker shade, and his eyes open. The scowl on his face was a great contrast to the smile that tried to eclipse the picture. Now this was interesting.

From the look of it, this Italy also had a brother. Only instead of the annoying, blonde, flamboyant, pussy brother he was stuck with, this southern Italy seemed angry, maybe even... jealous? Whatever it was, it made him smile even more. "Looks like I get to play even more lucky me~"

The sound of a door opening stopped his musing. The twirling of the knife halted, and a cruel grin spread across the tan face of Italy, "Let the fun begin..."

"Now then..." He grunted as he raised the sword. "Adieu."

Francis shook in fear, as the blade hurled toward his face, his mind raced for a way to escape; everything seeming to move in slow motion as the steel grew closer and closer. Inches away from his face, France did the only thing he could do: he let go of his sword, using the now free hand to roughly grip onto his attackers wrists; and, despite the bone shattering pain he felt in his chest, sat up and bit his ankle, hard, freeing his other hand.

France yelled out loud and growled in pain as he got off Francis, holding onto his ankle. Taking a deep, shaky, uneven breath Francis got off the floor and grabbed his sword once again. Standing up, he hunched over, feeling his broken rib-cage crack more with every movement he made; he had to make every move count. The other Frenchmen wasn't too far behind, grabbing onto his sword he turned and lunged towards Francis, enraged at the cheap trick he used to escape. Blue eyes lifted, seeing the attack coming on; last minute he lifted his sword, stabbing the lavender eyed man in the chest, blood spewed from his mouth has he gasped in shock, his actions stilled accompanied by the loud clang of a sabre crashing to the floor.

Moments of silence passed, both men breathing in ragged pants, blood pooling on the floor around the invading countries feet at an abnormal rate. Grunting, France lifted his arm and pulled the sword out of his opponent, feeling more of his ribs crack and strain with every movement. As Francis dropped the sabre, the other slumped to his knees, cradling his fatally wounded chest as he watched himself bleed to death. His face a held stern glare but as he looked up to see Francis, a twisted grin broke across his features, a choked gurgle laugh followed.

"What's so funny?" France panted, glaring down at his darker self, "You are in no position to be laughing."

"Like... I ever really gave a damn about any of this." His laugh was bitter, as he choked on his own bloody saliva. The other didn't speak, so he continued. "I'm done... doing any of this. You... You're lucky that I was the one after you, you... you pussy..." His laugh grew progressively louder, as if he was laughing at some inside joke only he truly understood.

Francis glared at him, angry that his victory was being tainted by the other's words, his unnerving confidence and certainty. He wouldn't be so discouraged, "You are weak."

"Doesn't that mean you're weak, too?" He laughed again, that horrible sound making Francis cringe. "It's not like Mathieu went after you..." Another bloody, gurgled filled chuckle, "You wouldn't stand a chance..."

Blue eyes widened, taken aback, "What?"

"I raised him myself... He's no match for..." A harsh, pained gasp silencing him mid-sentence.

"What... What?!" There was no reply, instead he saw the other completely fall to the floor, completely still; a twisted smirk and the last chortles of a dying laugh left from the nation. His body lay limp and bloody, mocking the victor. Francis stared at the body in horror, "What did he mean...?" He looked out the window to see the bright morning light cover the hills of his home. The beautiful sight held no hope for him, "Canada..." He whispered in horror and realization as he got the last bit of his strength and stood, ignoring his body's protests, running to the front door and to his car, "Canada!"

England finally made it to his house. It was a long night, but he knew that this wasn't over. He was going to go back through the mirror, to _their_ world, and find their weaknesses. If no one else was man enough to do it, then by God, he would!

He wasn't surprised to find his home a mess again. Mirrors were broken and furniture toppled over was what he was expecting. "No bloody manners at all..." He grumbled to himself as he reached for the basement.

He descended the stairs briskly and searched around the floor for the horrid thing that started this mess. However, what he discovered made him want to shout out in anger. The mirror was in the same place it was, only shattered. Fragments scattered the floor in tiny bits, any hope England had was gone. He fell to his knees and pulled at his hair, absent-mindedly shouting in anger and frustration. Angry hot tears rolled down his cheeks as he stared at the millions of shattered glass with such hatred and anger. He one by one, he picked up a piece of glass and threw it against the wall, his hate fueling every throw.

"Fucking wankers!" He shouted in the darkness of his basement as he continued to through the cursed glass, "God damn-Bloody-!," He cut himself off with another passion filled scream of frustration. His shoulders slumped and his eyes fell on one of the shards, staring back at him was himself, his bright emerald green eyes dimmed and darkened with the loss of hope. As he continued to stare at himself in the glass, he noticed something else being reflected, and as he focused on it, his blood ran cold.

Behind him was a tall figure, with a menacing smirk and a nail-covered, bloody bat in hand.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** Next chapter! Finally! Alright, so last chapter we noticed that the story was hard to follow considering from this point on, the story is going to be many different stories told at the same time. We thought that we could just space the paragraphs enough to indicate that we were going to another part of the story, but clearly that didn't work out. This chapter we did the more stereotypical way of indicating changes: the little dash line. We didn't want to resort to that, but well, what can you do? We're sorry if last chapter was hard to follow. That said, enjoy chapter six!

_The house was quiet and stood still as the disoriented English man passed through in a dizzy state through the halls. His awkward stumbling caused minimal damage and was brief as he slid into a door, the quiet settling in once again. The silence was interrupted once more as a Russian busted into the home with ease and without hesitation; he stepped to the side as others passed him. Their footsteps were quick and fast as they all entered with urgency; they couldn't let him escape._

_"Arthur~! You silly man, you thought you could hide from us?"_

_The other nations were sparse in the living room, checking behind the couches, underneath tables, and clearing out the room. All the while the blue eyed Englishman stood there, calmly, observing his home; his thoughts leisurely thinking of where his target could have hidden. The possibilities were endless, and his so-called "imaginary friends" were nowhere around to help, as usual. That was quite alright; he was used to being left to his own devices._

_"What makes you sure he's here, ve~?" The Italian's voice cut through his thoughts. Grinning, he turned to see his fellow nations eyeing him, some annoyed, others anxious. He started walking out of the room and toward the hallway's corridor, a finger at his chin and an airy feel to his smile._

_"It's the only place he probably recognizes is all~!" He looked at the doors in the hallway, gleefully calculating of where Arthur was hiding. Oh how he did love playing hide and seek. "Poor little copycat panicked and decided to hide here at home." He paused. "Of course, if I were him, I would go elsewhere..." His voice purred as his nails scratched a table he passed by, making some of the others twitch. "We may be the same country, but unlike him, my house is like a trap set for anyone... unwelcome ~."_

_"God, anything you say sounds creepy." A shudder could be heard in the Canadian's voice._

_"Now, now, Matt, that's no way to talk to your big brother!"_

_"Your Alfred's brother, not mine."_

_"Can we just find him already? Fuck!" The American yelled, clearly frustrated as he shoved one of the love seats against the wall._

_"Hai, England-san, this is your house. You know it better than any of us." The Japanese man cut in America's tantrum. "Where would be the best places to check?"_

_"Right!" The odd blonde excitedly responded, ignoring Alfred's clear annoyance, "Russia, go with Japan and look upstairs!"_

_"Da."_

_"Canada, Alfie and I will stay down here and look around a bit." The American twitched at his nickname as Italy, Germany, China, and France started heading toward the kitchen and parlor area, not waiting to be commanded by the Brit. England jubilantly shouted so everyone heard, "Whoever fins him, bring him to the parlor and give a signal-"_

_"Aiyah, what's the signal?" A lazy voice rasped._

_"Just yell for everyone to get their asses over here." The German accent spoke loudly enough for most to hear as they all separated, leaving the Brit with the Canadian and American to search._

_"Yes, I guess that will do. Sounds like a plan, chaps~?" The lack of response resulted in his smile faltering a bit. He did not like feeling out of the loop. His eye twitched as he tried to calm his mind from wandering to dark thoughts. They started clouding his mind, filling him with a mischievous sensation that only the doings with his chef's knife could satisfy. As he pulled out and grasped his knife, his thoughts were washed away with the sound of something very loud and noisy clanging about in his basement._

_"What was that?" Alfred looked away from one of the rooms he was scoping out and towards his previous caretaker, his right eye twitched at the expression on his face. The Englishman's face was contorted in a dark expression; his eyes leering at the door to the basement, a look of a cat about to pounce on a mouse. The American hadn't seen that kind of expression since he was a child, yet the small memory was more than enough for him to stay a clear distance. "...England?"_

_"It came from…downstairs, it sounds like. Do you have a basement?" The Canadian kept his cool as he approached the Brit. Though he was aware of the tense atmosphere, he had encountered worse growing up with the Frenchman, so it didn't bother him._

_"Why…yes, I do~" He turned to stare at the two, his expression stayed plastered on his face. "You two fetch everyone else; I do believe I've found our little runaway." He sang eerily as he opened the door and descended down the steps into the dark basement. He breathed in and bounced about the basement, humming to himself in no particular pattern, looking behind boxes and shelves in the dusty cold space._

_The already cramped basement soon became an even more tight fit as the others found their way in, each to his own as they searched. Most of the guests, like Russia and Italy, struggled through the clutter and supposed junk in search of their prisoner. Even people who knew the place better were starting to lose patience among the organized chaos. It wasn't long before the entire place was searched head to toe._

_"Damn it, he's not here! Where is he?!" The American glowered at his brother, "You sure you heard something, Matt?" He got out his bat. "Because I swear if we lost him because of your dumb ass-"_

_"How the fuck is it my fault?"_

_"You said you heard something, and now we're all stuck down here wasting time! So if he got away because of your 'boy-who-cried-wolf' act, I swear-!"_

_"Now, now, Alfie…"The Englishman interrupted him, ignoring the tension rising between the American and Canadian, "He's right…he was here…" Blue eyes fell on the mirror before him, observing that neatly stacked books were scattered about with other artifacts around carelessly, as if they were forcefully moved. "Gentlemen," He looked back at his comrades, his eyes gleaming, "I believe we've found our man." his voice trailed off, as he approached the mirror in a calm state._

_The others looked at each other as they stared at the mirror England was strolling towards. "Uh... Anglettere, that's a mirror."_

_Said man didn't respond as he turned his back to them, taking slow and steady steps, his body disappearing gradually as he phased through the silvery glass. When he vanished, the others looked on cautiously. They stared on, too stunned to do anything. The room stood still as their reflections held the same, surprised expression plastered on their faces. They didn't care how dumb they looked, they were just... shocked._

_"What the fuck..." Alfred's voice broke the silence._

_"Well, that confirms it. He really did use a mirror." Matthew nodded his head at his own conclusion._

_"Are…we supposed to follow him?" A thick German voice asked, the basement was quiet, no one sure on what to do._

_"Ah, what the hell." The Canadian said flatly, walking through the mirror, unphased by the supernatural properties._

_"Fuck," The American charged toward the mirror, "I'm not being showed up by that asshole." He finished his sentence as he phased through._

_"Come on, Germany! The fun is on the other side~" Italy all but dragged his comrade through the glass, with only minor resistance._

_The next to go through was the Russian, who only paused to loom back on the remaining three before he entered himself. Gripping his katana, Japan followed suit, along with a skeptical China._

_France looked around at the basement. He took out a thin cigarette, lit it, and shrugged. "Eh, whatever." He took in a long drag and entered into the glossy surface._

_On the other side he was met with the rest of the group, who waited patiently. He raised his brow at the uncharacteristic display, but shook his head as the Englishman spoke. "Oh, I do appreciate all of you deciding to come with me! I would have been very disappointed if none of you showed up here with me~"_

_"Ja, ja, let's just get this over with. Do you have any idea where the England might have gone now?"_

_Arthur pondered. "Actually... no."_

_A loud groan was heard from the group. "Ve, this is stupid. We shouldn't have even bothered."_

_"You should have thought this through before bringing us here, aru."_

_"Now, now, everyone, just calm do-"_

_"Don't tell us to calm down! We have a fugitive running around probably telling his buddies about us which means our plan is in the shit hole now! The surprise attack, the taking over business, all of it gone! God damn it!"_

_As they bickered France noticed an abandoned clock in the corner of the room. He scrunched his face and looked at his watch as he compared the times. The time was a few hours off. He looked back up to see that about half of his company was already pulling out weapons, ready to fight. He hummed to himself as the wheels in his head turned. "Wait everyone," his deep voice cut through them, turning their attention to him. "Arthur, is the time here different?"_

_The blonde blinked, and then nodded. "Yes, by a day and a few hours, to be exact. Why~?"_

_"Hmm, about a day ago this time in our world I was picking you up to take to the G8 meeting," his head tilted as he thought, taking in his cigarette and blowing out smoke. "Perhaps your counterpart was taken by this world's France and they headed there?" He took in another drag. "After all, they are supposed to be like us, oui?"_

_The men all stood and had pensive looks. "If they left for that meeting..." Began Kiku._

_"Then that means our other selves will be there as well." Germany's eyes light up as the metaphorical light bulb lit in his head, "Which means our plan can go into motion sooner than we anticipated."_

_Yao smirked. "Meaning this world will be easier to take with all of them there like sitting ducks."_

_England's wide grin came back to his face. "Then let's go, gentlemen~"_

_They all turned to go up the stairs when a loud crash was heard. Eight heads turned to the sound and were soon glaring at a certain brunette. Germany shouted, "You idiot! What have you done!?"_

_The smirk stayed on America's face as his nail-littered bat tapped the floor, now covered in shards of broken glass. "Hey, if we're going to stay here, why do we need this old thing now?"_

_"Fuck, Alfred, what if we need to get back!?" His brother snarled, taking out his hockey stick. "I have every right to smack the shit out of you, you know that?"_

_Alfred scoffed. "Who says we're going back? I thought we were going to stay here. For good."_

_The others stared on, but silently agreed. Perhaps this was best; out with the old, in with the new. They didn't waste another minute as they ascended the stairs and greeted the new world. The new world they were ready to conquer._

Green eyes contorted from fear to anger, glued to the red eyed reflection in the various shards of glass that scattered along the floor. The last hope he had, any of them had, of ending this quietly was gone. His hands clenched in tight fists, the knuckles turning white as he watch the owner of a playful smirk close in behind him. A low, amused chuckle filled the dark basement.

"Like my handy work, I see?" England turned, still fuming, facing red eyes and a coy smile, "Have to say, even though you took your sweet ass time getting here, that reaction was well worth it." A short laugh, "And your expression was priceless." The tanned American lifted his bat and put it over his shoulder nonchalantly, looking confident and pensive, "It always is, you know." His grin widen, looking down at the frustrated, angered and slightly confused Brit before him, "You know when people lose all hope, they only show one of two expressions. Sadness or anger, all twisted with hopelessness and acceptance that there's nothing left. Personally, I enjoy it more when they're angry…" His voice trailed off, as he moved his bat from his shoulder into his other hand, caressing it almost lovingly; he smiled so that his canines shown proudly, red eyes boring into green ones, "Means they'll put up more of a fight."

England face glowered, about to retort to the cocky American's "observation", when suddenly he felt the harsh, painful smack of a large wooden bat slamming upside his head, effectively launching him to the stairs of the basement. As he landed, the wind was knocked out of him. When it returned he let out a loud, hoarse cry of pain, the side of his head throbbing as he placed a hand to it. _'This shouldn't hurt this bad…' _His right ear ringing loudly where the bat made contact, his skin felt torn and painfully sensitive; as he looked down at his hand, it was covered in blood. _'Right…those blasted nails…shit.'_

A loud, cackling laugh rang in his left ear, "Come on, Artie!" He turned seeing the offender of his newest wound coming closer, "Don't make this _too_ easy for me!" As quickly as he could, said man jolted up and ran up the rest of the way up the stairs, trying to separate himself from his attacker as much as possible; a chorus of deep laughter not far behind him, "Aw, don't be like that now!" Though the voice was gradually sounding further away as Arthur ran throughout the house, but he could hear the last part, sending chills down his spine. The voice dropped an octave, dripping with malice, "There's nowhere for you to run."

()

_The sound of a door opening stopped his musing. The twirling of the knife halted, and a cruel grin spread across the tan face of Italy, "Let the fun begin..."_

"Wha-What the crapola?!" The sound of a deep voiced, angry Italian male filtered through the villa from the doorway, "Why is the damn door unlocked!? Fratello, you better be home, because if you aren't I'm-a going to kick-a your ass! How many times do I have to-a tell you to lock the damn door?!"

"Ve~, that wasn't a very warm greeting." The dark ember eyes of the sour Italian widen, looking before him, leaning against the entry way into the living room was his brother. Only, something was off. His eyes were magenta, his skin darker, and his whole being had an unnerving aura about it. His voice held the same sing-song tune it always had; only something about it seemed to mock him, threaten him. Staring on to his supposed brother made the anger in him quiver away. His face paled as the man before him smiled eerily and made the knife he had been carrying with him come to his view, twirling it in his fingers idly. "I must say, you weren't nearly this fired up earlier," Light, airy chuckles easily slipped past his lips, eyeing his knife fondly before looking up to the frozen Italian before him. "I confess, I think I like you this way, it'll make me tearing screams from you so much more fun." He began to walk over to his target, a light skip in his step. About a foot away, the dark auburn haired Italian snapped out of his state of shock and stopped the man before him.

"Who the hell are you?" He questioned angrily, pointing a finger at the estranged man before him, clearly pissed that someone was trying to impersonate his brother, and for said stranger invading their home. "Who the hell do you think you are coming into-a my house pretending to-!" He screeched and fell instantly to his knees, the man before him had grabbed his accusing finger, bent it backwards and spun the other nation around so that he was in a headlock.

"Pretend?" Italy bent forward, pressing his lips to the now cowering Romano's ear, "Ve, don't you think you're the one pretending~?" Romano shivered as he felt a long, cold and threatening object press against his neck, "Stop playing cute with me. You remember me from the conference room, don't you?" Calm, magenta eyes met fearful and confused deep amber ones as he tilted Romano's head back.

"Conference room?" He face grew angry again, "That's-a my stupid brother you're looking for! He's always going to those damn G8 meetings, what those jerk holes see in him I'll never kn-" He was cut off by firm, strong hands gripping his chin, forcing his mouth closed. Something clicked in his mind, looking down he truly took in the details of his captive: his hair and eyes were darker than his counterpart's, as well as the infamous curl being placed differently in his hair. His gripped tightened as he put the pieces together; this wasn't the same man he met in the conference room, a glint in his eye shone with new interest and mischief.

"So, then," Italy's face contorted into a sadistic grin, the blade along Romano's neck was beckoned closer, barely beginning to lightly prick the skin, "You're…**_Romano_**." Venom seethed through his voice, his grin faltering a bit as his eyes darkened, "I know _exactly _what to do with you."

()

England did his best to keep his breathing calmed to as slow and steadied pace as possible, the blood had stopped trickling down his face and was now dried and cracked. However, the newest wound, the one on his right shoulder, was about five or six minutes fresh and he had to hold back a painful wince every time he moved it. How long had it been, Arthur would guess about an hour of running around the house, trying to shake off the violent man and find a place to rest. More than a few times he'd been "caught", as the American would say, but he'd manage to escape every time with minor wounds, or, at least as minor as they could get. He gave a shaky sigh at what little time he had to rest for now.

_'This isn't good,'_ He thought to himself inside the linen closet on the second floor, through the door he could hear idle whistling and various smashing and crashing of various objects onto the floor of his home, occasional taunting here and there. His heart stopped when he heard heavy footsteps find their way up the stairs. The footsteps were loud, slow and ominous. If there was something this American knew, it was how to terrify his prey. It wasn't just sheer dominance or his violent tendencies, oh no. It was his way of instilling fear by letting his victims know he had them right where he wanted them, and that they could never escape. England shook his head_, 'There has to be a way out of this…he's too strong for me to currently take on….I need to think of something, and quick.'_ He continued to listen to the Alfred outside the door, the calm footsteps he heard before picked up a bit, as they ran towards the first door in the hallway.

"Come on, old man." Alfred growled impatiently, "I'm starting to get tired of this little game you've got going on," Arthur's ears picked up at the anger in his tone, "You know, next time I catch you, I think I'll bust your kneecaps," His voice mocking a thoughtful tone, followed by a short laugh, "And that'll be easy to do, too." Arthur ignored the shiver that ran up his spine and focused on the agitation in the American's voice, the steady increase in his pace and actions.

_'Come on Arthur, think! You don't have much time!'_ Again he forced himself to slow his breathing, his thoughts and heart racing one another, both in a frenzy. Arthur thought of when he was kidnapped, in the Conference room and now his current predicament. Completely focused on his intruder, he searched for any patterns in his behavior or actions that could aid him, anything that could be seen as a weakness.

A small smile graced his features for the first time in what seemed like ages in this hellish nightmare, the answer was so simple: his temper. If he was anything like America from this world, then perhaps...

Hearing another door open, he assumed that meant that the American went inside said room to search. Hesitantly, he opened the door to his hiding spot and poked his head out. The coast was clear. He quickly got out of his hiding spot and slipped into the nearest room. Inside he was provided with plenty of inventive ways of protecting himself. His hand reached for a candlestick on a nearby table; removing the candle and placing it gently on the table's surface, he crept out of the room, and tip-toed past the room America was in, making sure not to cause attention. Once he was safe at the mouth of the hall, he grabbed one of the small pictures decorating the wall and threw it. He silently cheered as it flew into the room he was just in and crashed on the floor. He heard America rush to the hallway and poked his head out, looking at the room and not him. He didn't want to press his luck and ran the opposite way.

The sound of things being tossed and an angry cry made him thankful for the plan working. He reached the staircase, staring at it in thought. Grabbing a vase that was set on a small table against the wall, he picked it up and dropped it. The loud crash echoed in the house accompanied by rushed steps. England turned and hid in the small closet, leaving the door ajar to see the action. The pain in his arm was dully throbbing, but he paid no mind to it. He watched as a blur of brown rushed past his hiding spot and thumping descending down the stairs. He waited.

A pause filled the air, then a harsh grunt with a frustrated sigh followed suit. Those heavy steps faded out and away from the staircase. Arthur opened the door and walked to the stairs, checking to see if he would come back. His stomach felt as if it was twisting in knots as he descended down the carpet steps as quickly and quietly as he possibly could. He made a mad dash toward the front door, but stopped as he heard a string of hushed curses coming toward the same area. Arthur flinched and turned around. _'Damn my house and its layout being like a maze!'_

He passed by the broken vase and turned toward another room. He paused as he saw the back of the intruder. He was preoccupied with searching in a coat closet. Nodding to himself, Arthur reached over to adjust a small clock on a self near his head. Just as the small antique was tipping over, he made a mad dash out of the way. Hearing the crash, he slammed a door leading to one of the studies and ran the opposite way, back toward the front door.

Only this time, the footsteps didn't go toward the racket, they went the opposite direction. "I'm on to you, England! I wasn't born yesterday!" The loud voice was trying to sound cocky, but the anger underlying it was clear.

England cursed to himself again and ran down the hall, catching a quick glimpse of a bomber jacket and blue jeans. He pressed himself against the wall and took a minute to breathe at a normal pace. _'Damn! It's not working like I hoped... Alfred always gets careless whenever he's angry... Maybe I can go about this another way...'_

A slamming door from behind him signaled that the vicious brunette was making his way back. Panicked, Arthur rushed to a nearby room, his sitting room, and hid behind the couch. He held his breathe and covered his mouth as those heavy steps were coming closer.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" A swoosh and a loud clash was heard. Arthur couldn't care less what he broke; he just had to come up with something fast. His brainstorming cut short as he felt cold air rush to his back, the support of the couch separated from him as it was flung across the room. "You know, you're really bad at this."

Before he could react, a bloody bat swung down on him, but he blocked it with the candlestick sloppily. He tried to get up, only to have a leather boot kick him down. Arthur looked into those red eyes as he crawled back. Those eyes were so hard and intense, as he stared into them, he couldn't picture what made this man the way he is. America smirked and kicked him in the face, sending England to the ground again and losing his only means of protecting himself. England rubbed his cheek and sneered at the man.

A harsh laugh broke out, "Man, you are pathetic. Trying to get me lost chasing you. Did you really think I was that stupid?" The man above him tsked as he lazily swung his bat in his right hand. "I don't know what the America is like in this world, but boy do I feel insulted." He grimaced. "No one gets away with insulting me..." He aimed his bat at the blonde's head. "Nobody."

Arthur rolled over just as the bat came down, groaning in pain as he felt nails graze his back. He got up just as America was ready to swing again and leaped toward him. They tumbled to the floor, grunting at the impact, and wrestled around both refusing to let down as they threw punches at each other. America grabbed England's wrist, but said man countered with elbowing America in the stomach, causing him to let go with a loud _'hmph!' _and fall to his knees. A growl escaped his lips, he glared at England and grabbed his ankle, pulling him down to the floor as he tried to get up and run.

England yelped as he was dragged onto the floor and pulled toward the enraged brunette. America punched him the face a few times, his fist coming down hard and fast. Arthur wiggled around to free his arm, his face quickly obtaining numerous bruises. Alfred was too busy enjoying smashing his face to notice his victim's hand reaching out. The moment England felt the metal feel of the candlestick touch his fingers he grabbed on and swung as hard as he could. As fast as it happened, everything stopped. The American was still.

With a heave, the body above the smaller man was shoved off. Arthur sat up and made a sideways glance to the man he just knocked out. Seeing red spot start to form on the carpet and the red liquid smear on the end of the gold weapon, he knew he hit him hard, but not enough to kill him; meaning he would be out for a while.

Arthur gave a relieved sigh and, after a bit of effort, stood up and limped toward the supplies closet. He didn't know how much time he had before this dangerous man awoke. He just hoped that the rope and duct tape he had was strong enough to restrain him.

()

Germany tapped his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. He couldn't help but think of his comrades as he made his way through the curvy road toward his home. He kept telling himself over and over that everything would be alright; that he made the right choice and everyone would get situated in their homes and prepare for the next attack, safely and successfully. He sighed heavily.

He really wanted to believe that, but something was nagging him in the back of his head. What if this wasn't the best way to go about this? What if he should have listened to England's advice instead? He shook his head. _'Nein. England was in a panicked state. None of us are ready to just jump into battle right now. Once we reach our homes, we can prepare ourselves better: raise defenses, grab our weapons, come up with strategies, everything and anything. Then we can meet back and be mentally and physically prepared.'_

**_How can you say that for sure?_**

Germany shook his head, doubt echoing from the deep recesses of his mind, "Nein!" He spoke out loud. "This is the better way!"

**_Are you sure?_**

Germany hesitated. "Of course I'm sure."

**_Then why are you shaking?_**

Germany blinked in confusion, looking down at his hands to see they were trembling. Pressing on the brake, he effectively stopped the car and put it in park; giving himself a moment to gather his thoughts and concentrate. He took in a few, deep breathes and shushed himself. "It's going to be alright... Everything will be fine... We just need to come up with strategies, then work together….protect our homelands first."

Germany swore at himself for being not his usual self, but the stress from an attack like this was wearing on him. After a few minutes, he shifted the gear to drive, continuing on home. He silenced his doubtful thoughts whenever they crept up in his mind and watched as his home was coming closer and closer into view. As he pulled up into the driveway, he sat in the silence. The tension in his shoulders hardly left, but he needed this moment to try and relax and take deep breaths. Just as the he was about ready to get out, he paused and hurriedly reached into the glove compartment and pulled out his hand gun.

From where he was parked, his house seemed normal, nothing out of place. Looking closely, however, he noticed that the front door was kicked in.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: Sorry it's taken us a while to update. Thank you for being so patient with us. Please enjoy. (Warning: Character death. I cried a little while writing it.) -Kat

Hope you guys enjoy the chapter and we hope it was worth the wait! So, in addition to updating the story, I'm going to be going back and editing some mistakes I've caught while rereading (for example, fixing the grammar errors in french.) Anyways, thanks for your patience. -Jax

Looking at the brunette across the room, with his head hung down and red stains covering his white shirt, Italy could only grimace and feel one thing: disappointment. Sure, causing pain was something that the northern Italian loved to do, but for some reason this wasn't as satisfying as he hoped. He averted his eyes away from his prisoner and scanned the neat display on the kitchen table.

Though it wasn't anything like he had at home, he was a bit impressed with himself at the make-shift array of instruments before him. His hand lazily hovered over the assortment as he tried to decide what to do next. There was a meat cleaver, kitchen knives, pins and needles, Lye, scissors of three different sizes, a small saw, and even a small pistol; but he would would use that later, when he was either done or bored. He frowned a bit and sighed at the lack of creativity this house provided for him, but it was the best he could come up with in such short notice.

He placed down the bloody hammer he held in his other hand onto the table; then turned to the quiet nation. Of course, he was quiet due to him being gagged, and was still from the tight rope keeping him against the chair; which he so thoughtfully nailed to the wall so the other wouldn't scoot around so much. A small sniffle could be heard from the captive, but as he looked up, his face wore a scowl mixed with anger and fear. Feliciano couldn't tell which was more dominant, and he personally didn't care. The tear stained cheeks, bloody clothes, and broken fingers told him he was in control.

Yet, despite the pleasure he felt from causing this man pain, disappointment crept up to the back of his throat. The man before him made him sick.

This impostor was nothing like his brother.

Italy forced a smile and casually strode up to the man, pulling out his favorite toy: his pocket knife. He twirled the blade expertly in his hands as he reached out to the man, stroking his hair in false comfort. When he tugged on the curl, this 'Romano' turned red and thrashed about. 'At least he reacts the same way as fratello... Almost...' Italy moved his blade so it ever so gently glided under Romano's chin, forcing the man to stop his struggling and look at him. Magenta and amber eyes met, staring the other down. One with anger and the other mild with boredom.

"You know," Italy spoke in his sweet voice. "This isn't as much fun as I imagined. Mio fratello would never have been caught so easily, nor would he have taken my special treatment so lightly..." He tugged on the curl harder, causing the man to groan and send a death glare. "And he would never have given in so easily and take it like the little bitch I see before me."

Romano grimaced in pain as Italy slowly pierced his shoulder expectantly, idly twirling the knife as if it were second nature. The pain was evident on his face but the glaring eyes didn't dare break away from the magenta ones.

Italy's lips tugged into a small smirk. "That's better~" He dug the knife in more, slowly dragging it down. " Let's see how long you can hold out, shall we? Romano's record is five hours before he dares to even flinch." He added the last part deviously, "I'm wondering how long you would last~" Romano squeezed his eyes shut, trying in vain to not concentrate on the pain. However, the feeling of his muscle and flesh being slowly ripped apart was too much. He let out a muffled moan of agony and thrashed in the chair, trying to get away from the pain.

Italy tsked. "Aw, how sad..." He removed the blade swiftly, only to stab him in his other shoulder, twist the blade, and smack Romano across the face. "And I'm suppose to believe you are my brother's counterpart. Ha! You can't even last thirty seconds from a small knife!"

The auburn haired nation turned away again. The scrapping of a chair being dragged across the room cut through the angry whimpers momentarily as Italy brought a chair to sit in front of the southern Italian. He reached behind the bloody mess of a man and untied the cloth, allowing his captive to cough and breathe in shakily, soft pained sobs escaped him as his lungs struggled to breath; the pain making it near impossible to focus on anything, fear however, kept most of his muddled thoughts focused on the man before him. Feliciano sat down in the chair he brought and leaned back, trying his best to admire his work, although, he felt he could have done better.

Romano breathed in and winced at the pain, and was silent until he spat at the tan man's face and shouted, "You... bastard!..."

Italy raised an eyebrow and wiped his face. "Really? That's all you have to say? How boring..." He rolled his eyes. He was really hoping for a more interesting reaction than that.

"...Why?..." Romano huffed.

Italy tilted his head. "Ve~? I'm afraid you will have to be more specific than that."

Romano took in a shaky breathe, but his glare was still strong. He coughed. "Why... are you doing this!?..." He coughed again.

Feliciano pondered a bit before speaking. "That's still quite a vague question, but since your brother isn't here yet, I suppose I can answer the best way I can~" He leaned forward. Romano thrashed his head and tried to bite at the gloved hands, but Italy was successful with gagging the nation once more. "Don't be like that~! I can't have you interrupting me."

He sat down once more and folded his hands neatly in his lap, perfectly at ease sitting across from a man in tremendous pain. "I won't bother to tell you why I'm after this world's Italy. I personally don't see why I have to explain myself to you. But, about why you," He pointed at him, anger laced on the emphasis on the word, "that is a different story." He reached out and grabbed his knife, yanking it out of Romano's shoulder roughly and earning a muffled yelp of pain. He twirled the blade in his hand pensively before he continued. "My life has always been a struggle. Some say that I was blessed with being raised by Grandpa Rome, but I wasn't. That man took me away from my brothers and taught me the ways to fight and to torture, to be a strong country. He would beat me if he so much as saw me do anything artistic, which made him furious about the renaissance. He saw it as weak and in no way helpful to carry on his legacy.

"All this time I thought to myself 'Why am I the only one being treated like this? Where's Romano? Why me and not him?' So when I came back and I see him being carefree and an asshole, I suppose that's when my hate for my brother started. It grew more as everyone else started picking us apart, showing that all that time with Grandpa did absolutely nothing! And, to top it off, people still preferred my lazy brother who can't defend himself properly over me! Then, oh then, every war we went through, every lose we've endured, I'm to blame! Even if it was his fault, I'm still looked at as the proper representation of Italy simply because that old fool chose me over the brother who dyes his hair blonde and prances around saying that everything can be solved with words, not war! Ha! He has no idea what he's talking about! He has others fight battles for him and lets me take the blame whenever he fails! Even Germany is on his side, saying brothers shouldn't fight and want to kill each other! He doesn't understand! The angry, feuding blood of Romulus and Remus is inside me, and I can't stand by and watch as my own brother takes away my glory and leaves me with the shitty messes he gets himself into!"

Italy was standing now, shouting at the shocked Romano. His words seethed through his teeth and burned the air he breathed, fueling his pent up rage more and more. The magenta eyed man took in a few breaths and steadied himself. The cool, suddenly calm look he gave Romano sent shivers down his spine.

"And yet, no matter how many times I have tortured him to fill that feeling of hate in the pit of my stomach, he always smirked and brushed it off as if it was nothing, having Big Brother Spain come save him... And now... When I have the chance to fulfill my wish of vengeance with no interruptions... You give me this," he said venomously with disgust, "pitiful excuse of Romano! You don't even act like him! How am I suppose to enjoy this if you DON'T EVEN ACT LIKE HIM!"

He launches for the other's throat and starts to throttle him, shaking him as his grip tightens. Romano's gasps are muffled by the damned fabric, tears pricking at his eyes while his face turns red. Soft amber eyes stare at the insane grin of the poor copy of his loving brother. Romano didn't stop the tears from falling as his vision began to spot. Memories of his brother flashed through his eyes; his sweet brother that would put up with his crap with a smile on his face. This mad man before him slowly draining him wasn't his brother.

A slamming door made the hands around his neck let go, forcing him to breathe in sweet air through him rapidly. Panic took hold of him as rushed steps were echoing throughout the house.

"Romano!" Romano thrashed in his chair, trying to free himself at the sound of his brother's voice. "Romano, please tell me you're here! I went to your house but you weren't there!" Romano could hear the worried tears in Italy's voice. He thrashed more violently so he could warn his brother. He stopped when he felt a cool blade press against his neck and a leather glove pat his cheek softly.

Italy rushed into the doorway of the kitchen, hoping his brother could be there, and froze. He was too late. The violent man calling himself Italy was there, standing in the kitchen, with his brother. Romano and his brother made eye contact, Italy's heart broke at the sight of his nearly mangled brother and the hope he had in his eyes at the site of him. Italy then looked up and started to shake, it was his other self from the conference room earlier. His eyes bore into him, daring to come closer. The standoff seemed to last hours in the short seconds after Italy entered the kitchen, his mind racing for a way to save his brother; who was still looking up at him with such desperation. However, before Italy could even take a step closer, faster than either of them could comprehend, the intruder flicked his wrist, and Romano's eyes dilated.

A loud, pained and blood curdling scream filled the house, it took Italy a few seconds to realize it was him screaming as he watched in horror a red river ran down his brother's neck as he went limp. He covered his mouth as silent sobs caught his throat. "No, no, no, no..." His pleas were muffled as his hand was still placed over his mouth as he felt himself fall on his knees to the floor. He continued to cry choked sobs until movement was heard. Italy tilted his head up and was met with cool eyes and a curling lip on the tanned man's face. He came toward him, the look on his face promising a similar fate. Italy, momentarily snapped out of his hysterics and ran, but as he was about to reach for the front door, he felt the collar of his shirt being tugged back, making him fall back against a strong body. He struggled but was no match for the iron grip and the cloth that smelled strange and sweet.

His body went limp and the conscious Italian smirked. Oh yes, he was going to have some more fun once this one wakes up.

()

From where he was parked, his house seemed normal, nothing out of place. Looking closely, however, he noticed that the front door was kicked in.

Germany turned off the engine and cautiously got out of the car. As he approached the house he cocked his gun. 'Perhaps it was just bruder who forgot his keys... Then again...' Germany kept close to the outside wall as he side stepped toward the front door. Checking to see if the cost was clear, he inspected the door more closely. 'Gilbert wouldn't go to this extent... Even when drunk.'

The German listened closely for any sound before pressing a hand on the door and pushing it open. He cringed at the small creak the door made, stopping. A faint cold sweat began to appear on his forehead as he squeezed through the gap and pointed his gun around him. Seeing the cost was clear, he cautiously continued inside.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. Besides the door, everything looked perfectly fine, and it was unnerving. If someone did break into his house, then surely they would have taken something. Had it been Gilbert, the nation's older brother, then the TV would have been blaring and said man would come walking in, wrap his arms around him, and bug him about how the meeting went like the obnoxious ex-nation he was. The fact that everything was quiet and calm made the blonde tense.

A small click made him turn around.

Germany pointed the gun at the man that he recognized from earlier, and said man pointed his gun at Germany. They were both still as they studied each other wordlessly. Germany could see both similarities and difference in this version of Germany. They were both the same height and were equally matched when it came to muscles. Germany had icy blue eyes, while this man had light lavender orbs. Their hair was blonde, short, and slicked back, but Germany's was a pure blonde color while the other's was a bit paler and seemed a bit more messy underneath the hat he wore.

They stared at each other, neither daring to move an inch. That is, until the other spoke. "It appears we are at a draw."

Germany nodded his head. "Yes, I believe so." Even their voices were similar.

The opposite smiled in a lazy fashion. Germany narrowed his eyes. "How about we cut the bullshit and fight like men?"

The German nation didn't budge. "What do you mean?"

"It's no secret why I'm here pointing a gun at you. Personally, I just want to get this over with so I can really get things started. And since we're both at a stalemate of sorts, let's put down the guns, and fight. Sounds like a plan, ja?" He smirked.

Germany growled. "Look, I don't know what you're playing at, but I want you out of my house and going back to wherever you came from! You come barging in my home, pointing a gun at me-"

"You're pointing a gun, too."

"That's not the point! You expect me to just let you come in here and fight you? Are you insane!?"

Lavender eyes flashed with annoyance. "First of all, you need to calm down. Second, I am the representation of the noble country Germany. If this home belongs to you, then in a way it's mine also. At least, it will be mine. Thirdly, if I really wanted to, I could have killed you right when you pulled up to your drive way, so what I'm offering right now is a chance to live. I'm not leaving until one of us is stone cold dead on the floor. I came here to take your place. If you don't agree to what I'm offering you, then I'll shoot you right now. And if you think you can shoot me first, think again."

The attitude of cockiness thrusted into the little speech made Germany boil. "Listen you-"

The sound of a gun going off bounced off the walls in the house. All was still, lavender eyes glaring into icy blue. "I'm not fucking around. Take my offer, or else I won't miss next time."

The blonde looked behind him to see a bullet hole millimeters away from his head. He turned back. "...Why are you giving me the choice if you can just kill me now?"

The other's smirk came back. "I like to earn what's mine. Not just take it." He cocked an eyebrow. "Do we have a deal?"

Germany paused. "...Ja."

Simultaneously, they eased their guns down to the floor, kicking them to the side. The tension in the air was so thick, their movements slow as they studied the other, preparing for the fight. Ludwig held a sick smirk, his lavender eyes slightly amused and staring down at the other. Both were still, waiting for the other to make the first move, preparing their bodies for whatever was going to happen.

Suddenly, Germany felt himself being tackled to the floor. Ludwig was now above him and moved so fast, he didn't even see him coming towards him. The first punch to his jaw didn't register simply because he was surprised. However, as the other German reeled back his fist for a second hit, he grabbed onto it and kneed him in the side.

The other rolled over, grabbing onto Germany's hair and harshly butting him in the head. Germany felt dizzy as he attempted to get up, but the other kicked his chest and as he was on he was on his back, Ludwig stepped on his stomach. Germany then grabbed his leg, throwing him over himself and against the wall. The other groaned yet picked himself up, only to have Germany grab his collar and punch him. Ludwig laughed and punched him back.

They both reached out to punch and grab the others' knuckle, glaring at each other at their standstill. Germany's face bloody and bruised, while the other smirked with only a few bruises forming. He kicked Germany's legs so he fell on his face. He leaned down and pulled him up by his hair and into a head lock, squeezing him. Germany growled and curled his hand into a fist. He punched him three times before he felt the arm around him loosen. The other German punched him in the side of the head before he rolled off and brought his hand to his nose, he brought his hand down from his face only to see blood, and he smiled.

Germany launched at him pinning him down and punching his face. His knuckles were starting to hurt but he fought through the pain. He didn't notice when the other grabbed his forearms and switched their positions until he was on the floor. Mimicking him, they tossed on the floor until Germany's back slammed against a bookcase. The books came tumbling down on them, distracting them momentarily, the other Germany saw this opportunity, grabbed a book, and swung it at the other's head.

Germany got up. "You said we could only use fists!"

"I cheat."

Fed up with the dumb fight, Germany jumped and kicked the other in the abdomen, sending him flying across the sitting room. Just as he was about to grab anything blunt and big to knock out this nuisance, the other German used both elbows to strike him in the back, sending him tumbling down to the ground. Just as he flipped over onto his sore back, strong legs pressed against his forearms as thick hands strangled his neck once more.

Germany struggled to get free, his legs kicking wildly. The mix of his throat being squeezed and pressure on his chest from the body above him pressing down made it difficult to breathe. "Ne-in..." Germany struggled even harder as he coughed. The man that looked so much like him sneered at him.

"Ja." He chuckled. His sneer grew as Germany's vision started to spot and his limbs were beginning to feel heavy like lead.

The world was quieting down and just as he was about to black out, a gust of fresh air filled his lungs. The sting of sweet relief made him cough, his hand reaching to his throat, feeling nothing there. The blonde turned to see the copy cat clutch his head and wince. He pulled his hand back to see blood.

"West! Are you okay?!"

Germany had never been so happy to see his brother. Prussia, his albino older brother, was hovering over him with a worried expression. In his hand he held a crowbar. Where he got it from Germany didn't know nor did he care at the moment.

Prussia stared at his younger brother, all beaten up and just getting the color back in his face. He felt his blood boil and turned to face the attacker. "Who the fuck do you think you are!? Attacking one of us like that iz asking for a whole shit storm of-!" The ex-nation stopped. Lavender met with red and both stared in shock. Prussia couldn't believe what he was seeing. It was like another Germany, only... different. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, confusion evident on his face. "What...what?" He couldn't even form a full sentence, he just continued staring, as did the German counterpart. Only, Prussia was staring out of confusion, the other as if he'd seen a ghost.

The stranger slowly got up, his expression the same as he shook his head, before turning and running out of the room.

"Hey!" The shock wore off, replaced with the anger Prussia felt before. "Get back here! I haven't beat your ass for touching mien bruder!" He was about to chase the strange man when a voice stopped him.

"Let him go..." Ludwig got himself up, wincing at the soreness of his back.

"West!" Prussia knelt down and put one of Germany's arms around his shoulder, helping him up. "What ze Hell happened?"

Germany breathed in before speaking. "I'll explain everything later. Right now I need to warn others-"

Prussia set him down on a couch, sitting next to him. "Ludwig," He looked into his eyes with a seriousness that Germany has rarely seen. "Tell me what is going on right now."

Germany looked away and sighed. "Fine. But afterwards you need to help me make phone calls to warn everybody. Got it?" Prussia nodded, not prepared for what he was about to hear.

()

Matthew Williams stared out the window of his humble home with worry. The drive home was long, longer than he thought, and now here he was, feeling tense and his heart pounding as his nerves got to him. The Canadian nation thought over what happened several hours ago over and over again in his head, not believing what happened. He sighed and turned away from the window. He sat himself on one of his plush chairs and buried his head in his hands.

'Who am I suppose to call? What do I say to them?' Canada's thoughts buzzed in his mind. If anyone asked him, they should have stuck together and tried to catch the villains by surprise. Unfortunately, nobody ever asked what he thought. He guessed the only reason why no one said anything otherwise was because everyone was in a state of panic, including himself. 'And I can't be the only one who thinks that way...'

The blonde man groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. 'I just got home, I need to relax and think...' Another exhausted sigh left him. 'Maybe Kumajirou wants something to eat.'

He slowly got up from the comfortable chair and headed toward the kitchen. He walked toward the freezer, pulled out two salmons, and placed them in the pet polar bear's food dish. Closing the freezer door and heading toward the sink, he listened for the soft padding of paws to come in. The hot water ran loudly over his bubbly hands and down the sink drain as he washed them. The sound of of a door closing made him pause, then he smiled knowing that meant Kuma was on his way down. He turned off the faucet and spun around, ready to greet his forgetful friend.

He narrowed his eyes. There was no sight of the polar bear. 'Was that my imagination?...' "Kuma!" 'Strange... Even if I imagined it, he usually comes in about now... Especially when I serve salmon.' The blonde man walked to the door frame, calling the bear's name again and again. "Kuma, I have your favorite! Come and get it!... Kuma?"

The feeling of unease filled him again. He tried his best to shake it off as he searched the house for the bear, desperately calling out for his animal companion. "Kuma! Kuma! Come out, now. This isn't funny!"

A loud thump came from above his head at that moment. Canada looked up at the ceiling. He rushed to the staircase and ran up them, trying not to trip on himself. He turned to his left and headed toward his office. He opened the door with unnecessary force and stared inside. "Kuma, are you in here?" He stepped inside the dark office, wincing as he searched for the light switch.

A lamp in the corner flickered on, making it easier for the violet eyed Canadian to see. On the floor in front of a chair was a bundle of white fur. Canada sighed in relief. "Oh thank God, he was probably just asleep... Silly thing probably fell out of the chair."

He moved quietly toward the bear as to not wake him up and reached out to pet his fur. Something didn't feel right, but he ignored it as best as he could. "Come on, sleepy head. Time to..."

Canada's hand brushed over something wet. His eyes widened as he pulled back it pack. His palm was smeared with a dark red color. He started to hyperventilate, then froze as he heard the door behind him close with a soft click. He turned and was met with the dark, restless eyes. "About time you showed up."


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** Next chapter! So, I just want to give a shout out to everyone who's been following us, favoriting us, and reviewing the story. Your support means a lot to me and Kat and we just want to thank you guys. You definitely light the fire under our asses to get chapters done, haha. -Jax

_Canada's hand brushed over something wet. His eyes widened as he pulled back it pack. His palm was smeared with a dark red color. He started to hyperventilate, then froze as he heard the door behind him close with a soft click. He turned and was met with the dark, restless eyes. "About time you showed up."_

As soon as their eyes met, Canada looked back down at reddening white coat of Kumajiro, and in a blur of movement picked him up and ran out of the room, completely ignoring the presence in the doorway. His thoughts were moving a mile a minute, _'Maybe I can still save him, I can still try, it's not too late,'_ Tears welled up in his eyes as he gently tried to shake the little bear and was answered with a deafening silence.

_'It can't be too late. Please. Please. PLEASE.' _He hurried to one of the bathrooms on the first floor of his home, frantically searching the medicine cabinets and first aid kits. His mind ran faster than his hands as he fumbled with the metal box and opened it in a frenzy. He ripped open the small packs of alcohol wipes and places them wherever he say blood. His panic clouded him. A nagging voice in his head told him that what he was doing was useless. Grabbing the bandages and unraveling them into a mess, he stopped. Before he could even try to apply the first bandages, a smell made it's presence known. A foul odor began to seep out of the bloodied fur, an odor he was unfortunately familiar with; it was the stench of death.

He couldn't tell how long he stared at his deceased friend, until the sound of leather boots clomping on the wooden floors made him snap out of his still stupor. In his hands he still held the bandages, his face solemn and expressionless, waiting for his counterpart to speak first. A short laugh followed Matthew as he started at his softer self, standing in front of the bear. The laugh was bitter.

"I expected you to run at first," He adjusted his aviators, "But this," He gestured to the bear slumped on the counter and the various medical supplies, "It was just a bear for fuck's sake, get over it."

"Why…?" The voice from Canada was deep and dark, however is cracked just a bit, showing pain, "He did NOTHING to you!"

"True…but he _was _in the way." He shrugged, "And it got your attention."

"You... son of a bitch!" He yelled angrily and went to throw a powerful punch, but a massive object passed his vision, barely missing him, followed by a loud crash as it broke a mirror. Canada stopped and stared at the large shattered mirror that was only a foot away from him. He turned his head to see the Mounty-clad counterpart retrieve his large, menacingly red-splattered hockey stick, ready to swing again. Canada dodged the second blow, but barely, and ran out of the restroom, heading back up the stairs his mind frantically crafting a plan.

"I figured you would have run, again." His raspy voice was annoyed, a dark contrast to Canada's own whisper-like tone. His dull colored eyes fixed on Canada's back as he run up the stairs, he calmly followed him, listening to the frantic footsteps move above him. The hockey stick held in his hands dragged on the floor, purposefully making a loud dragging sound, letting his prey know he was coming. "Watching you stand in the background earlier told me you weren't much of a fighter..." He called as he ascended the stair case, he then spoke to himself, "And you're supposed to be me..." The last part came off as disgust. "Nothing but a damn weakling."

The northern country swallowed, searching through one of the rooms in his house. "You don't know what kind of person I am... Just because I didn't fight, does not mean that I am weak."

"Speak up, I can't hear you." The voice was harsh, and slightly startled Canada, but he quickly masked it as he turned around, his face hard. In the doorway of the room he was in, stood his intruder.

"I said I'm not weak..."

"Still can't hear you." The voice was starting to get annoyed. The fists holding the weapon of choice tighten, knuckles turning white.

He reached behind him, gripping onto the small table he was searching through. "I'm **_not_**weak."

"Bullshit. I can sense your type a mile away." He scoffed. "I'm going to make this quick." He then raised the hockey stick and slammed it down, Canada retaliated quickly by lifting the table behind him and turning around; effectively blocking the attacking and tossing his attacker to the other side of the room. Matthew angrily rose from the rubble of the broken table, yanked his hockey stick off the ground, and turned only to see his target was gone again. He grimaced, his eyes darkening as he charged out of the room.

Canada found himself down stairs again in one of the broom closets. It was then he allowed himself to drop the hard façade as tears welled up in his eyes again. Kumajiro, his best friend, was gone. Often the only thing that would keep him company when no one else bothered to remember who he was, the only thing that gave him any solace those lonely nights when he was alone….all alone, just him and Kumajiro….and now he was gone. A chocked sob left him. And why did this have to happen? _'Because….'_ He gritted his teeth as his tears turned hot with anger and grief, _'Because this sick person that's trying to kill me would… __**is **__making sure that everything I hold dear and close to me is erased. Even…even poor Mr. Kumajiro…'_

This thought alone caused the rage to boil up again, to hurt someone as close to him as Kumajiro was just asking for trouble. America may have been known for acting out on rage, but no one has really seen Canada angry, _really _angry. Most never knew he could be angry, since they never pushed him hard enough. He stood, tall and proud, calmly walking out. The shock and initial grief of finding his friend dead friend faded and was replaced with a feeling he hasn't felt in a long time.

_Vengeance._

He wasn't surprised to see the other standing in the archway to the hall across from him when he emerged. They both stared the other down, their expressions solemn. Matthew spoke, clearly still annoyed, "Are you going to fight me now?"

Canada didn't say anything. He was never much for talking when he was like this. Instead he ran toward him, launched himself at the perpetrator, and tackled him to the ground. His shout held his feeling of grief and anger, a combination that sounded wild to the ears.

Matthew spared no time in fighting back. While Canada punched him in the face, the other took hold of his wrist and twisted it. Canada yelped in pain, only stopping his punches for a moment, however he didn't back down from his assault. That was until he was straddled, loudly landing on his back; his arms pulled over his head. Matthew then proceeded his onslaught of punches; one hand held onto Canada's, the other delivering blow after blow. He lost count of how many times his arm pulled back and slammed back down, but the bruises and blood he could see were giving him a sick satisfaction.

Meanwhile the man below, ignoring his sprained wrist and abused face started rocking back and forth, desperately trying to flip them over. The punches hurt, yes, but many fights with others in the past made him use to it, use to combat. Moments later Canada mustered the strength within himself to not only knock the man on top of him over, but he bucked his legs, effectively kicking Matthew and sending him a couple feet away from him. Using this valuable time, he pushed himself up and stood; his face hardly looking like the gentle man most of the world knew him as.

They lunged at each other, fists ready to make contact with the other. However, Canada forgot that Matthew carried with him his weapon. In the midst of their fighting, the hockey was forgotten on the floor; but was revisited as Matthew landed hard on the wooden floor of the Canadian's home. Before lunging for Canada, Matthew hastily grabbed the notorious weapon and then aimed right for his opponent's head. Canada fell to the floor instantly; Matthew rushing to his side, only to grab his collar and throw him across the room, a satisfied grunt followed from deep within his chest.

Canada's back hit it first, making his head whiplash against the hard surface and caused his vision to go white for a few seconds. He growled, groaning as he held his head, the oncoming headache was inevitable and throbbing. Matthew sneered and crouched down beside him, studying the man below him; deciding that enough was enough, he used his forearm to press against Canada's neck. Said man choked and struggled, his limbs frantically flailing about. However, it was all for naught; the Canadian above him was stronger, and had suffered less damage in the fight. As he pressed more of his weight down on his forearm, Canada looked up at the Mounty uniform worn by his attacker. It seemed ironic to the gentle nation. A uniform meaning protection and justice worn by a man as twisted and violent as this made the personified country sick. It was getting harder to breathe, but he struggled and kicked all the same, refusing to show signs of giving in and wanting to wipe that dull, melancholic expression off of the man that mocked his country.

The other felt the same; looking into the bright eyes of a man who would call himself Canada, a weak man who spoke quietly and, from his perspective, had no back bone or respect from others. He had learned a lot from watching others, and he already knew what this form of his country was like. And it sickened him.

He frowned. "At least you got in a few good punches before I killed you." His tone was bored. "You're not as weak as I thought." The pressure on his neck increased, causing the other to gasp out as he stared up into those cool eyes. They held no emotion; not even a sadistic glee. If Canada had the strength, he would be shivering with unease at the look.

Then, as if life itself gave him another chance, Canada heard a loud, angered cry. Suddenly, the weight on top of him disappeared. As the air forced itself back into burning lungs, he grabbed his neck instinctively, massaged the bruised flesh, taking in deep, heavy breathes. His eyes wondered up to see something he thought he'd never see.

There, covered in dark bruises, blood and panting heavily, was France. He was nothing like the clean-cut man that the Canadian was used to seeing. His bright eyes set into a glare, his shoulders were tense, mouth was set in a tight grimace, and in his hands he held one of the frying pans from the kitchen. He clutched onto the metal object tighter as the man that assaulted his Canada held his head and started to get up. Noticeable thick lines of red were spilling down his temple.

Matthew pressed his hand on the injury and snarled at the newcomer. "So you must be France," he spoke as he struggled to stand. The Frenchman hit him harder than he thought, and he planned to hit him again, harder. "You should be dead by now."

The blonde man put on a resentful smirk. "Fortunately, he underestimated me."

Matthew showed no signs of remorse for the loss of his previous caretaker as he pulled out a switch blade and went for the blonde before him. France raised the pan and swung it down once the attacker was close enough. A silver light slashed about, making red lines appear and a furious, frustrated cry escaped pink lips. Simultaneously, the sound of loud clanging from metal on flesh and bone was heard along with a low groan. They fought fast and attacked each other with only one goal: one of them had to die.

Meanwhile, Canada was pulling himself up and looked away for only a moment. The fighting filled the room as he propped himself on the wall, leaning on it as he gathered his strength, watching the fight.

The other Canadian was quick to dodge the swings of metal in the air, but the same couldn't be said for France. He must have been stabbed quite a few times since his fine shirt was starting to stain red; the new stains mixing with the old ones from his previous fight. His cracked ribs ached and protested against the Frenchman's movements, begging him to stop, but he ignored it. Instead he used the last of his strength to tackle the other and bring the pan down on his head. The maroon eyed villain had a look of dizziness, but was able to shake it off for a moment as he stabbed France once more, deeply in the stomach.

This only fueled France's rage as he began to mercilessly beat the frying pain into his beloved Canada's doppelganger. The body below him struggled less and less with each blow, every one delivered with more hate than the last. And sooner than later, all that was left of the Mounty was a limp body and a mess of pulverized brains, skin, and bone. France looked at his work before collapsing helplessly beside the corpse, his fatal wounds finally taking their toll as his already labored breaths became heavier and less frequent.

Canada immediately pushed himself up and rushed toward his savior's side. Worry expressed his face. He hesitated on what to do as he tried to gently lifted the other nation up, but a yelp of pain stopped him and he settled for at least cradling his upper half toward him. He was at a loss of words as he stared at the man below him, feeling his eyes starting to wet.

"Canada..." Francis smiled weakly, but warmly; his brow furrowed in pain.

"France... you didn't..." He inhaled sharply, "you didn't have to-"

France hushed him. "Non, non, non. Mon petit lapin... Don't be silly... I wanted to save you..."

"H-How did you know he was coming?"

His breathing hitched, Canada held onto him tighter, "I fought my other self... And-And he told me yours was coming as he died..." Canada nodded slowly. "I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough-I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner."

"Don't say that!" Canada yelled in shock, "You fought bravely! You... You remembered me and went to save me. You could have just left me for dead or have easily forgotten about the danger I was in, but..." Canada felt his eyes get hot, but he blinked it away as much as he could. "You came for me. You stayed and fought for me. You... You were so brave, France...!"

France closed his eyes and smiled, a tear ran down his cheek. From pain or from happiness, neither of them knew. "Canada... I would do that for you in a heartbeat. You will always be mine to protect... No matter what anyone says, you are a wonderful country and a loving man... And I know I was never there for you, but-"

"Papa," Canada choked, "You sound like you're saying goodbye..." France looked up at him and smiled. Canada shook his head. "No... No, no, no, no! I will get us out of here, and you will be just fine! I'll go get a first aid kit, and-!"

France's fingers pressed gently on Canada's lips, silencing him. The hand moved to his cheek, resting there. Canada held it there with his own, "Mathieu..." he panted, "My boy...My little boy…" His words were labored, "Je t'aime…Je t'aime tellement ... Mon petit lapin..."

The breathing slowed and all was silent. Canada's face was wet as he looked into those beautiful blue eyes fade slowly. "Papa?... P-Papa!...N-n-no." His lip quivered, his voice cracked as he leaned down and pressed his lips to the dead man's forehead in his arms, hugging him tighter, and cried.

()

Ludwig ran from the house, not caring how weak or stupid he must have looked in front of his target. He kept running ahead into the trees surrounding the German countryside, not stopping until he was sure that he was out of sight and out of earshot. He slumped against a moss covered log and listened to the sounds of birds chirping above his head. Though the forest gave a peaceful feel, it mocked the nation. He took off his hat and ran a hand through his untamed locks, taking in a deep, shaky breath.

_'That was, no doubt, Prussia.'_ A shiver ran down his spine. Prussia, the older brother of Germany... Ludwig felt the goose bumps on his flesh rise as a memory crawled out from the back of his mind. A memory he worked so hard to never have resurface, however this time he didn't stop it as it played in his mind as clear as day; as if it happened yesterday...

_It was the ninth of November, nineteen- eighty nine, and Germany could only stare in disbelieve. The Berlin Wall had finally come down. The east and west side of Germany was once again unified, and his people rejoiced. Civilians that were trapped on the Communist Russia side were running into the arms of loved ones and crying tears of joy. The cheering was deafening as people flocked out, running over the ruins of the infamous wall._

_Ludwig took a few steps forward, hardly breathing, as his lavender eyes stared at the gaping hole that was once solid. Not wanting to wait any longer, He took off in a sprint and jumped over the rubble, he eyes scanning over the crowd, frantically looking for a certain albino he hadn't seen in decades. Hope, that he thought was once dead, began spreading spreading through him like a wildfire as he searched the crowds._

_"Gilbert!" He called out. "Gilbert! Gilbert, where are you!? Es ist dein Bruder! I'm here! Gilbert! I'm here!" The lack of response was bothering him, but he still called out for the Prussian; he voice escalating, booming through the crowd, desperate to be heard._

_Time passed of him shouting and hopping back and forth over the wall a dozen times. Anxiety began to take hold of him as there was still no reply. No site of his silver-haired, lavender eyed sibling. No sign that his brother was even nearby._

_The quiet that was washing over his surroundings told him that just about everyone had dispersed, most reunions leaving the rubble and gathering elsewhere; and soon Germany was left alone. He lavender eyes fell to the ground, his eyes hopeless as he knelt down in the dust, his hands covered his face as dry sobs accompanied the constant whisper of his brother's name. As he was losing the last of his hope, he heard footsteps. His heart swelled as his head snapped up, only to crumble completely. There, standing among the debris, was the last person he wanted to see._

_A tall, pale, red eyed brunette strolled up to him. If it was America, he wouldn't have cared as much. In fact, for this short moment in time, he would have been grateful to see the short-tempered asshole of the world; he was a huge help in getting the Berlin Wall torn down. But this man, the one taking long, menacing steps toward him, was different. He stopped looking down at the blonde before him, greeting him with a bored expression._

_"Здравствуйте." The deep voice spoke perfect Russian; Ludwig glared up at him as he stood._

_"Where is Gilbert." He demanded._

_Russia stared at him, his cold eyes boring into him. A single brow was raised before he spoke. "What do you mean?"_

_Ludwig gritted his teeth; his furious expression almost masked the horrified one underneath, "Where. Is. He." His voice hissed, making it clear he wasn't playing games, "The wall is down, he's no longer a part of your territory." He nearly growled, "Give him back."_

_A very faint, playful smile found itself on the Russian's face, "Simple." His eyes held amusement, "He became one with Russia."_

_Ludwig's blood froze. He couldn't move. He watched, dumbfounded, as the winter nation turned and walked away, his only purpose to crush the little hope he had inside him._

_Ludwig stood there, between the ruins of the Berlin Wall for days before his boss came and took him away from the site; he was never the same after that day._

He breathed through his nostrils in a harsh pattern. Emotions he thought were dead filled him up again in the most unpleasant ways. His eyes were hot, as tears threatened to pour out but he refused them to do so. Placing his head in his hands, a new plan formed in his mind. This world's Germany didn't deserve to have Prussia. If he didn't have Prussia, then why did this world's Germany?

With fierce determination and a new purpose in mind, he clenched his fist and whipped out his phone, dialing one person he knew would understand.

"Ciao, who is this?" Germany listened to the Italian's voice and sighed. Good, he answered.

"Hey, where are you?"

"I'm busy with Italy at the moment. Why are you asking such stupid questions, Germany~?"

"... I need your help with something. I want us to have a change of plans."

He heard theother tsk into the phone. "What? Was your match too hard for you?"

"Nien." he replied harshly, "It's just that something unexpected came up." He paused. "Prussia is here."

There was silence on the other end. "Meet me here in Italy's house," Ludwig smirked at the seriousness of the tone. Good, Italy was on his side. "It's exactly where my house is back in our old world. Ve~" His voice went back to its sickly sweet tone. "Also, I've got a surprise for you~"

"Whatever." Germany ended the call. Sure, Arthur wouldn't like that he and Italy were going off track, '_But let's be honest, which one of us ever listened to the other without changing it to benefit themselves?' _Ludwig whistled as he headed toward the Italian's whereabouts.

()

"Damn! That bloody frog won't answer his phone, either!" England pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. He let out a strangled sigh. "That's the fifth person I've called and nobody is answering!" He growled and grumbled to himself as he paced the floor to try and calm himself down. He finally forced himself to sit in his chair, his fingers drumming the armrest.

"...I knew it was a stupid idea to split up!"

The British man threw his arms in the air in frustration, and slumped back. He was silent as he calmed his nerves and tried to reassure himself. He reached for the ice pack on the nightstand beside him and placed it to his head, wincing slightly at the sore bump.

Green eyes opened and swiftly glanced at the sound of shuffling. In the corner was the other America, staring at him with his vivid red eyes, body beaten, and muscles tense. Arthur sighed, relieved that the restraints on him, mostly rope and electrical tape, were holding him. The gag in the American's mouth was making the room nice and quiet.

England set the ice pack down and got up. He walked toward his prisoner, and their eyes locked. Arthur studied him for a bit, and then rolled his eyes at the cocky grin that was trying to make it's way around the captive's gag. "When they get here, you have some explaining to do." There was a muffled snicker from the American and Arthur growled. "This is serious! When we get to the bottom of this and find out why the Hell you're doing this, you and your friends will regret ever stepping foot here!"

The American attempted to laugh again and cocked his head. England hesitated, but got the message. He reached over and undid the gag so the other could talk. The first thing he heard was a bark of laughter.

"Ha! You honestly haven't figured it out? Seriously? I thought you guys would have got the gist of it by now! I mean, you sound like you know what's up, but really? Damn, you guys are thick in the head."

"Shut up! I'm telling you, once they get here-"

"They're probably all dead by now." Alfred chuckled and paused pensively; mocking his captor, "Tell you what. Save your breath, untie me, and I promise I'll end your life quickly before the others get here and kill you, alright?"

England frowned. He tied the gag around the tan man's mouth, not wanting to here another word. "If all you're going to do is insult me and fill my head with lies, I might as well get back to more important things than deal with you, you pompous ass!"

Arthur turned away and picked up the phone for the umpteenth time. This time he dialed Germany's number. The ringing lasted shortly before it was picked up. "Hello, Ger-"

"Vhere are you?"

He stared at the phone with a scrunched up face. "Prussia? What are you doing answering the-"

"I won't repeat mien-self. Vhere. Are. You."

The authoritative tone made the blonde forget about the fact that the ex-nation kept interrupting him. "I-I'm at my house."

"We'll be there shortly." The line went dead.

He stared at the phone, confused that the usually energetic and cocky Prussian was so serious and authoritative. _'Something must have happened,' _he thought before turning to his captive, "Ha! See? Someone did answer!" He chuckled and paid no mind to the rolling eyes across the room. "It's at least a start..." He mumbled to himself as he hung up the phone, then picking it up again, and dialing America's number; hoping he would be like the German brothers and answer his call.


End file.
